


a pale man, a false mirror

by aPaperCupCut



Category: Penumbra (Video Games)
Genre: ....author flipped their lid and didnt finish proofreading or html editing..., ...not so fresh but i dont care!, M/M, Major Canon Divergences, What if Scenario, at this point im going nuts trying to post this. but i Will post it so that my sibling reads it, author is slowly losing their goddamn mind to anxiety over this sO HERE U GO, well. this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 66,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26472364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: There's been a mistake.
Relationships: Clarence & Philip LaFresque, Clarence/Philip LaFresque, Dr. Amabel Swanson & Thomas "Red" Redwood, Philip LaFresque & Dr. Amabel Swanson, Philip LaFresque & Thomas "Red" Redwood, background Dr. Amabel Swanson/Thomas "Red" Redwood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. ship hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> The lift car taking me right down to the pit  
>  I read the inscription, that life is shit  
> And the lamp above burns alone in the darkness  
> Do not even think about me, come into my place_
> 
> _It's just like an old movie  
>  With the curtains drawn, don't let me step through the window  
> Turn on the radio, the sound is too weak  
> I can hear a whisper, I can hear my heartbeat_
> 
> _In this world of lonely people  
>  I will hide you in my own small apartment  
> We're like rats, running from the lights  
> We live in the holds of ships_
> 
> _The light of a lantern cuts the night, like a butter knife  
>  You smoke on the balcony, and it's like you're waiting for something  
> Cheap sweet tea cools in the kitchen, time for us to rest  
> Don't rush your time here, don't rush your grief_
> 
> _Your soul is open on Chapter Seven, my sweet  
>  Come in, throw away all the songs about me  
> Let all the fuses blow here, so be it, in all the flats,  
> Calm the silent sadness inside yourself  
> _
> 
> _ [BLAZH - Трюмы кораблей](https://youtu.be/X-pJmArulSk) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [author's notes, misc info, and content warnings](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fqbp1R_HPBwv9AJtoh4Geul6ZXq3ufMlGnZjkUuw2K0/edit?usp=drivesdk)

It's cold. So cold.

He's lying on his back, tongue thick in his throat, and he's cold to the bone. If he could move, he knows the skin on his fingers would be drawn tight and stiff, unpleasantly  _ cold. _ But he can't; his body is too busy pretending to be an amateur actor, auditioning for the role of a seizure victim. It's cold and he can't stop  _ fucking  _ **_shaking._ **

( _ his brain is mud; he can see the sky, the white-blinding sunlight piercing through the veil of ice. how far did those innocents fall? _ )

This lasts impossibly long. He can't even blink; his eyes grow dry, crackling in his need with the impulse to  _ blink, _ please, please just fucking  _ blink. _ But he can't, he can't, his eyelids are frozen to his skull, immovable and unmerciful. At the very least, his teeth fill the empty room with noise, chattering so loudly that he swears his ears must be bleeding. But he can't feel the telling curl of liquid pool from his ear canal, the cold so overwhelming that the only sensation he can process is  _ cold. _

And then, it stops.

It just. Stops.

He would sob with relief, but it really does just… stop. With the withdrawal of the shaking, the phantom bleeding, his chattering teeth - he's calm. His heartbeat is regular and quiet, and he takes in the ceiling of his bedroom without it pulsating up his throat. He licks his lips, somehow unnerved by his own peacefulness. As if he hadn't woken in a panic at all.

The cold is still there, but it no longer carries the bitterness of the… dream. The dream? Well. Of course he'd been dreaming, that is what one does when one is asleep. Of course.

( _ dream a dream of heavy bitterness, of rot-sweetness, with horrors dark and deep _ )

Of course.

  


* * *

  


The rest of the morning drags from then on: a slow movement, as he pulls himself up like a broken marionette, as he knocks his limbs against walls and counters, dropping his spoon several times as he struggles to eat soggy cereal.

A fog descends over him. He finishes eating. Dresses himself, tries not to fret over greasy strands of hair or the bags under his eyes. Almost forgets his wallet, nearly loses five minutes searching for it before finding it where it always is. Blink, once, twice; swallow, it's difficult, and shake your head. Forget what you were doing - turn, spin on your heel, then recall you were only getting into the car, nothing more. Swallow again; feel your cheeks twitch, anger throbbing before it's pulled down into your belly, pulled down with the swallow.

His heart pounds; his head more so.

At least it's quiet at the University; he doesn't have any classes to lecture to, and he finished up the last round of grades just last Friday. Nothing urgent calls for his attention, and he knows he planned it that way so that he could -- he could --

Focus. Focus on other things.

Just what those other things  _ are, _ well. He's not sure of anymore. It feels like it's been too long since he's climbed the steps to the third floor, the lift still out of service. It's been too long since he's run his hands down the dark wood grain of his office desk,  _ but it was only a day. _

He thinks the dreams he must've had, the dreams that clearly threw him into such a panic as he's never had before, must've been terrible indeed. Very terrible. He's glad he can't recall them.

( _ he can he can he can he-- _ )

(can't _. _ )

The day flies, then, as the morning hadn't. He checks the clock, seconds between, once to  _ 9:00 am, _ again to  _ 12:00 am. _ He finds it more disorienting that he is not disoriented, and only hums to himself, a strange sound to accompany the tick-tock metronomic melody.

Time behaves erratically; he whiles it away, reading emails his colleagues have sent him as friendly overtures and considering his mother's phone number. He hasn't talked to her in quite some time, and he still doesn't want to. And she wouldn't like him to, either. And still, and still. He picks at the thought, a hangnail stuck fast and unwilling.

Lunch sneaks its way into his office, with a sound like an impotent buzzer. He swings his coat back on, one he'd shrugged on absentmindedly that morning, and leaves the University without much thought.

It's only when he's parked outside a nearby café that he realizes that he's hungry, his appetite returned from whatever pit his dreams had cast it away to. He leans against the steering wheel, considering the time without seeing the time - and decides a longer lunch break won't be remiss of him to take.

The murmur of the café is a balm, a soothing contrast to the white noise in his skull. He stands in line; he orders. He steps back, settling into an unoccupied chair, and waits. They call out his name within moments, a fast delivery of a hot tea and sandwich that he takes with a nod, retreating to a secluded corner, resting at a vacant chair.

He feels… vacant. His fingers tangle in the sandwich wrapper, crinkling noisily. There is a feeling in the air, of waiting, of expectation, but he can't rise to meet it. Not yet.

Outside the window to his right, people go about their day with little concern for him. There is nothing much to do except watch them; a woman bustles by, red dress aglow in the afternoon light. She nearly trips when another pedestrian bumps into her, her hands flying out in an attempt to rebalance herself. As he watches, she collects her dropped purse, and turns her head to the sun.

For a moment, he swears she looks familiar somehow - like a newspaper clipping of someone he saw years before. But the feeling vanishes with her, as she disappears back into the crowd.

Indistinct; he takes a sip of his tea without tasting it. As he watches them, he feels as if he's standing among them; a faceless being in a faceless multitude, the only one standing still. Philip closes his eyes, soaking in the sensation; the noise, the brush of people moving around him, all of it so soothing. Like taking a rest after a long walk, carrying a load upon his back, finally setting down his burdens and  _ breathing. _

Jesus. Those dreams had done a number on him; it's only now that the fog thins in his brain, letting the calm of his surroundings pacify him. He runs a hand through his hair, still existing in that throng of strangers in his head.

The sandwich tastes good, with the tea. He finishes eating, thoughts sliding into focus once more.

_ Maybe she wouldn't mind, not really. And… there's something I want to tell her. _ What that  _ something _ is remains something of a mystery to him, but it itches and digs into him - and he grows weary of it, and he shoves the entire idea into the back of his head. Better to watch the people outside, and fall back into that peaceful lull. 

He lets his thoughts wander, eventually, but he does not entertain his previous lines of thought any longer. He finishes his lunch, and returns to the University, calmer than he had been since the night before.

The next few days pass exactly the same: he wakes each morning, disorientated, suffering but thankfully to a lesser degree than that first time. He eats, readies himself for the day, and then plunges into the liminal space of his own mind. That is the only way he knows how to phrase it; that sensation of quiet, a contrast to the noise in his thoughts, an ointment to the sense of confusion and lagged thinking that overwhelms him - but only if he lets it.

Only if he lets it.

He tries to keep that in mind. To remember that  _ he's  _ the one thinking these strange things -  _ flowers? dead ones, in that stranger's hands, and he watches them pass by from his seat in the café  _ \-  _ they look like a photograph worn away to nothing, clinical and distant  _ \- because he is. 

( _ who is? _ )

He is the one thinking these things. And he is the one who can choose _not_ to think of them, because it's _his_ head. He is in control. This will pass in time. 

On the fifth day, he wakes up feeling like his head's caved in, like his skull has broken open akin to an egg, his brain scooped out by a rusted spoon. He shivers, and tries to wait for it to pass, all the while cursing - himself? His situation? He almost doesn't want to think of it like that, as if he's done something to warrant this upset in his mind,  _ when he's done nothing. _ Nothing! There was nothing in his life to cause this, so why--?

He hates the feeling, how it curls and burns in his chest. How he responds to it senselessly, eyes watering, knees drawing up to meet his chest. Fetal position, he covers his neck with clammy hands - as if to protect himself from a violent strike. Bitterness taints his mouth, and all he can think to do is snarl into his bedsheets, hopelessly angry at childhood memories.

Eventually, he lurches out of bed all at once - unable to withstand a moment longer of this remembered weakness. He can't abide it. He tears off his sheets, cold numbing his mind, and throws them into a corner of the room.

It's the only thing he does before the fog swallows him up, and he shuts his eyes to the barren mattress, shuts his eyes.

He doesn't know why he's doing this. He just wants it to stop, whatever it is, and leave him in peace - because as monotone as his life is, he's comfortable.

If anything changes, it should be by his own actions - not some  _ delirious _ fever he can't shake, not some stupid bout of childhood melancholy. He refuses.

He shuts his bedroom door behind him, and lets the fog carry him away.

  


* * *

  


"Professor?"

He looks up sharply, a bitter  _ it's-Doctor-to-you _ on his tongue, which is confusing because he doesn't  _ care _ what his students call him, and all the more confusing because he's still two years off from earning his PhD. Not yet a doctor; barely a professor.

The student in the doorway appears nervous; no doubt they'd been knocking and he just hadn't heard, his brain still choked with fog. They run their hand through their dark hair, visibly swallowing as they stammer, "Dr. Swanson said you wanted a reminder?"

_ Dr. Swanson? _ He doesn't know a Swanson. 

( _ doesn't he? _ )

A reminder is understandable; he has the habit of forgetting things he doesn't have a desire to know of, and things like appointments are something he often requests others to remind him of. 

"What reminder?" he says, and it sounds raspy, strangled. Like he hasn't spoken in some time. "I saw Dr. Swanson yesterday, she hadn't mentioned anything."

He realizes it as he says it: he knows a Swanson. A Dr. Amabel Swanson, to be exact. He… doesn't know how, or why. He sweeps that to the back of his head as the student creeps closer to his desk, anxious hands now wrapping around themselves in dizzying twists and spirals.

"I, um. Don't know anything about that," they say. "Just something about a... Clarence? A Clarence Odbody? Um, the appointment, I mean."

"Hm." The intensity of their anxiety… they need something else. He levels his gaze to theirs.

They cave. "And, uh, could I have the assignment for July extended? I think I must've misunderstood more than I thought, because I have no idea what's going on anymore and it's really starting to freak me out."

  


* * *

  


He almost doesn't go.


	2. quaker buttons, steeped in sarin tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I'm digoxin  
>  From the foxglove plant  
> The last remaining VX  
> From Anniston  
> I'm NaCN and I'm DDT  
> Tappin' the spine  
> I am a chemistry_
> 
> _It's a guess,  
>  A sarin for high tea  
> A C4H10FO2P puts you on your knees  
> A self idealize  
> With ethylene  
> I say it again: I am a chemistry_
> 
> _She doesn't need my help  
>  Poison in the well beneath the rue leaves  
> She only needs my help  
> Pleasure in a cell beneath the rue leaves_
> 
> _My mama told me not to fool with oleander  
>  I never handled the deadly quaker buttons again  
> My mama told me not to fool with oleander  
> I never handled the deadly quaker buttons again  
> My mama told me not to fool with oleander  
> I never handled the deadly quaker buttons again_
> 
> _I am chemistry  
>  When you least expect it  
> I am chemistry  
> Eyes wide open  
> I am chemistry  
> That is when you get it_
> 
> _ [Yeasayer - I Am Chemistry](https://youtu.be/7XzqCUbiPc4) _

_ Clarence, Clarence, Clarence. I know your name, I've heard your name before; a distant memory of a movie I didn't want to see. Did you pick that out yourself, or was it your only choice? _

He flicks the straw with his nails again, sweeps it smoothly around his index finger until it taps, lightly, against the yellow tabletop. Looks up; seeing no one, he leans forward, hunching his shoulders. He's tired, unnervingly so, as if he ran fifty kilometres to get here instead of strolling into his car and driving a few minutes down the road.

Was the appointment for this specific diner? He doesn't know. He just… came here, the name  _ Clarence _ echoing like a sour note inside his head. He sounds the word out in his mouth, unintentionally vocalizing the nasally, clicking sound of it.

"A good name for a guardian angel, huh?"

"Shut the  _ fuck _ up."

There's a moment, where he hasn't realized his mouth's opened, where his ears buzz with shocked silence. A moment where whoever's in front of him ( _ impossible, impossible _ ) doesn't register to him, where he's still far behind the present, still fiddling with his straw and thinking about movies that lie, about parents that don't call.

And then - a chortle, high and throaty, and a gruff, accented voice says, "Well, guess I shoulda expected that from ya, monkey."

And Philip's mouth clicks shut, and Philip's brain realizes  _ oh fuck, _ and Philip's eyes water instead of meeting the gaze of the one and only  _ Clarence. _

"Didn't," he starts to say, then stops. Clarence slides into the seat across from him, and like magic the waitress appears. He doesn't say anything until she leaves with an order for some kind of mango drink, a smile on her face. He tries again. "Didn't think you'd show your ugly mug around here again."

It's not what he intended to say. He doesn't know what he intended to say. It's like he's been quartered - his mouth, his thoughts, his eyes, his brain. His tongue says he  _ knows _ this man, enough to be rude to him; his thoughts scramble, dizzy with bewilderment and hot with anxiety; his brain keeps pulling up memories he  _ can't  _ remember until he  _ does _ but he  _ doesn't  _ but he  _ does _ ; and, fuck. His eyes only water, useless, and all he knows is that a man he  _ knows _ but  _ doesn't _ is sitting across from him. A blur in every way, except for his height and weight, which are  _ his, _ which is  _ wrong, _ but, but, but.

Clarence - the man, the stranger, the… the friend? companion? when? why does he - simply watches him, and he knows the other can read him even as he's all too aware of the frozen neutrality of his expression. As if he can read Philip's mind, a thought so unsettling that it makes him feel physically ill.

( _ nauseated, and you barely know him. or maybe it's because you do know him? _ )

The waitress appears again, carrying an unrequested plate of sandwiches. She places it down without a word, slides the mango drink to Clarence's waiting hands, still smiling that empty, bright smile. The clock behind the diner's bar tick-tocks longer than it should, the only noise in the entirety of the building, muffling any sounds of the other guests. As if no one except them exists here.

"You've really spruced up some, haven't ya?" Clarence says, making Philip's heart jolt unpleasantly in his chest. Something's off about the guy's voice, besides the unidentifiable accent. Something American? "But boy, haven't gotten any chattier. What a bleedin' shame."

Philip sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, struggling to pin his tongue down to some semblance of control. A fight, between several impulses: he refuses to speak to the other, for no reason he can discern, yet he also wants to josh with the other, again for no reason he can discern. A fainter, more respectable part of himself is shocked and mortified - he's already told the stranger to  _ shut the fuck up _ and called him ugly, what worse could he do? The obvious choice is to get up and just  _ leave, _ abandon the establishment before his tongue runs away with his senses. For God's sake, this is a stranger -  _ no he's not _ \-  **_yes,_ ** _ he  _ **_is_ ** \-  **_no_ ** _ , he is  _ **_not_ ** \--

All the while, the stranger - the companion - watches him. It's as if he's fascinated, as if he's always wanted to see something that Philip must, somehow, be doing right now, something he's never seen before. It confuses him even more, and his tongue snaps out, "What've you been up to, then? Haven't been playing 'guardian angel' for quite some time, Clarence."

_ Bloody flying fuck, you're not chatting up some cousin or auntie, you fucking nitwit. _

If Clarence is uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. "Ah, you know. Took a few jaunts out to Egypt, had some fun nights with some  _ very _ handsome broads. A vacay out is always what the doc's ordered. You?"

"Nothing," he says thickly. A beat, and he says, whisper-thin, "You're lying, aren't you."

"You know me too well, monkey," Clarence answers with a grin. Philip restrains the urge to say  _ i don't know you at all  _ and  _ monkey?! _ "Egypt's got some great margaritas, though. And I know you've been up to somethin', you and yer little puzzlin' brain. Any closer to that sweet, sweet payout?"

He almost doesn't understand what his companion is trying to say until he himself says, "Only two years out, now. It's not been smooth sailing, but I think I'm doing better than you have been. How many years do  _ you _ have to go? Four? Five?"

"Hey hey hey, don't start with that shit," Clarence hisses, but even as his voice goes smooth and sallow like oil, his eyes ( _ eyeseyeseyes _ ) glimmer in amusement. "I'm makin' plenty of progress, travelin' all over the globe, while you sit on yer ass teachin' babies how to do four plus four right."

To Philip's intense surprise, he barks out a laugh - dry and short as it is. The other seems genuinely surprised as well, like a fundamental rule of the world has been broken, and that makes him choke out, "You should see your face."

_ You look ridiculous. _

He doesn't know why he says that. He can't even properly make out Clarence's face, so  _ he doesn't know why he says that _ .

All Clarence says in response, with his not-eyes inhumanely wide, eyeshine so moonbright, with teeth aglow as if shrouded in darkness, is, "You should see yours."

  


* * *

  


He doesn't recall the rest of the… visit. He… decides he wishes he did, because his joints buzz with an unfamiliar warmth and he feels awake for the first time since… he's not sure. The only experience he could compare it to is an entirely theoretical one, one he's never actually undergone himself - the moments after seeing a close friend or relative for the first time in a long time, that fever-pleasantness of remembering and reminding and soothing, that feeling of affection reviving an old connection to an absence once mourned.

But. He's never been  _ that _ close to others, not in his entire life.

( _ only stars when you wanted moons; discomfort, thinking, picking, at how they've moved on and you haven't. _ )

A flicker of disgust ( _ distrust _ ) at himself. Clearly,  _ clearly, _ he was wrong. Clearly.

After all - Clarence is his friend, isn't he?


	3. just black licorice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I'm just black licorice  
>  And all the people that I know  
> Would rather leave me in the bowl_
> 
> _Chuckie knows he'll have to carry me home and he'll say that's fine  
>  But he's my baby  
> He won't mind  
> Alley girl is dressed like me but she's on a stride  
> Of keeping her shit right in line_
> 
> _And life knows..._
> 
> _I'm just black licorice_  
>  And all the people that I know  
> Would rather leave me in the bowl 
> 
> _ [Peach Pit - Black Licorice](https://youtu.be/1QGYaZmYfyE) _

_ "You've got the flowers?" _

_ Tapping, his favourite pen against his friend's desk. A hum, a murmur; distracted, then. _

_ "_____, you got the flowers, didn't you?" _

_ Another 'hm,' in response. He fights to swallow bile, to shove back the hot-heavy anger threatening to erupt out of his mouth with a too sharp tongue and risk cutting through the curve of his friend's cheek. _

_ "Camila's flowers," he repeats. Uselessly. Again, a struggle to push back violent scorn, and this time he loses. "For fuck's sake, _____, answer me!" _

_ His friend looks up now, and their eyes droop in annoyance/exhaustion/impatience/frustration at his expression. He feels his mouth threaten to wilt around the edges, but still the disgust burns wet behind his eyes. _

_ They mumble out, "I can't fucking do this right now,  _ Philip.  _ You've always hounded me about this, and now that I'm fucking doing it, you're, what? Upset I can't attend your aunt's fucking baby shower or something? Get a grip." _

_ They swivel their chair more pointedly now, but his disgust hasn't left him. It's still riding high in his throat, a selfish, angry thing that wants to spit itself out into their face, into their hair, into their stupid - fucking - eyes. _

_ His hands are shaking. He leaves. Gets the flowers himself; part of him is still angry, still disgusted, still biting, curses their name, their timing, their whole bloody profession to hell and back. Another part, small and miniscule - something he squishes under his thumb until he can't anymore - says, ever so softly, that it was his fault for not saying up front what the flowers were for. For not - for not communicating. Or, or something  _ throwaway _ from an old psychology book on relationships he read years ago. _

_ He's used to funerals anyways; seems like everyone is dying nowadays, and maybe it's better if they don't waste their time crying at one. Maybe it's better that they don't see his easy candour, handing the white flowers off to his cousin before her small face crumples in a mess of tears and snot. _

_ Maybe it's better. _

  


* * *

  


He wakes, warm and liquid. Doesn't spend a moment thinking of the dream, not like he had the day before when he couldn't remember even a fragment of the images in the nightmare. ( _ because what else could it have been? _ )

The day, like the one before it, passes in snatches; his thoughts drift, slow and molasses-like. His students are undemanding; where other professors relentlessly request complete and total attention, he lets them do as they wish. After all, he's not here to teach; he's here for the papers, for the tenure. If they want to squander their time in his classes, he's not going to argue. The only exceptions that he provides his utmost effort and attention to are the few who request him outside class hours, and this particular group has been unexpectedly fruitful with those types. He's proud to say that several might go on to pursue a PhD, like him. They're here for the same things as him.

For the things that don't matter - and yet such things completely and utterly calm him when he squares his attention solely on their functions and components. Quantum physics, a love he can claim if anyone asks. Not that anyone has.

But at the end of the day, just as the one before, a student turns up at his door. The same time, the same student - the same anxious greeting, the same murmur of  _ dr. swanson _ and  _ clarence odbody. _ And he gives them a few extra papers for them to read, to help them a little bit more in their studies. They thank him, quietly, but he's pleased to see that the tense line in their shoulders has eased some; hopefully they'll relax enough that their work will improve, even if only just barely.

This time, unlike the first, the student leaves a thin folded piece of paper on his desk before they depart. It's almost translucent, a cheap lined thing that seems soft at the corners; a hand, rubbing to the grain of it.

He props his chin up on the backs of his hands, considering it. An invitation; a written one. With his head clearer than it was yesterday, he can wonder about its contents without falling into a rapid fire stream of paranoia and anxiety.

A glance at the clock ( _ 2:54 _ ); this time, thankfully, only a handful of minutes has passed since the student left. He hums, a low, neutral sort of sound in the back of his throat, before straightening his back and opening the letter.

It's unnoteworthy. A greeting ( _ hello monkey-man _ ) and a declaration ( _ i assume you've gone dusty and creaky from all that reading, sitting in that dark pit you call an office _ ) and, of course, an invitation. ( _ This is not an invitation, I demand your full attention from your measly, pea sized brain. Meet me at the diner at 4, will you? And bring those papers we talked about. _) 

Signed,  _ Clarence the Guardian Angel. _ He's really leaning into that, isn't he? Clinging to whatever he can, and Philip doesn't think about the squeeze of sympathy in his heart.

( _ you're just as confused as i am. _ )

He checks the clock; it's 3 ( _ 3:02 _ ). He gets up, gathering the papers he'd been shuffling through and placing them neatly to the side. The papers Clarence asked for… at first he can't figure out what, exactly, the stranger is talking about, but then his feet are moving, his hands opening the bottommost drawer of a filing cabinet hidden away across the room, pulling from the back several stuffed folders of files he doesn't recall ever seeing before.

Still, after another glance at the clock ( _ 3:15 _ ), he grabs his handbag, stuffs the papers in, and leaves his office without another thought.


	4. know i'm alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I'm getting cheeky with a rifle  
>  I'll pull the trigger with my eyes closed  
> Hoping to hit you somewhere vital  
> And when I miss  
> You come and kiss me with a smile_
> 
> _The only time I ever see her  
>  Is when she's behind me in the mirror  
> Even from a distance I can hear her  
> Try to listen, but her whispers make my ears hurt_
> 
> _And on our dates, it's never daytime  
>  When she gets playful with a steak knife  
> I need a break, maybe I'll take five  
> Shake it up and medicate, maybe I'll take five_
> 
> _ [Teddy Hyde - Sex With a Ghost](https://youtu.be/AGKcT5vlRkE) _

"You happy to see your old pal Clarence, or is it just me? Nah, must be  _ all _ me." He grins, bright and large, an expression that nearly freezes Philip, his hand still lingering at his bag's strap. It can't have been long since he checked the clock. ( _ it is 3:57 _ ) The drive here isn't that long. Is it? Suddenly, he's not sure. Clarence can't have arrived before him, but he has - he did. Philip is altogether too confused about it to respond properly.

Clarence interrupts his thoughts, waving a broad hand to him, beckoning him over. Together, they sit and order from the waitress that appears out of thin air - the same waitress, the same air. The same smile.

She disappears as quickly as she appeared, as if she'd never been at all.

"So," drawls Clarence, that accent turning the simple word into a strange purr. He leans forward on his elbows, backlit eyes focused intently on Philip's. "How goes your ventures? You're two years out, but I hear whispers, monkey."

When he doesn't continue, Philip shifts his weight, but keeps his hands steady on the table. Tries to keep  _ himself _ steady ( _ i dont know you _ and  _ i must, i do know you _ ) as he forces out, "I trust my colleagues not to gossip, but I admit I'm not surprised. What are they saying?"

_ clarence smiles like he's got nothing to hide and yet, the winning hand is his, _ Philip notes.

"Oh, let them gossip like the old biddies they are. You're gonna turn into one at some point, might as well get a head start now."

"Clarence."

Clarence's eyes are blue -  _ no, green, green like envy _ \- brilliant as they flick to meet his once more. He's almost uncomfortable in these moments, wherein he reacts with a great deal more comradery than he feels.

"If you wanna know," the stranger says, the words curling in the still air, "You haveta pay up."

Philip's mouth turns sour. He can feel the way Clarence's attention turns, an unreadable expression eating up the smirk on his face. "I'm not giving you anything."

"Do you listen at all when people are talkin' to you, monkey? Just meant I'm not footing the bill this time." If Clarence is at all bothered by Philip's sudden sharpness, he doesn't show it nor return it in kind. His tone is gruff but even.

Philip nods, accepting the request. It wouldn't hurt his pockets to pay, but he finds himself bothered by the…  _ monkey _ nickname. ( _ repetitive. clarence is nothing if not repetitive. _ ) The waitress appears once more, bearing their drinks in tow.

Clarence preoccupies his hands, stirring a red straw slowly through the opaque orange liquid of his drink.

( _ never knew clarence would like fruit drinks so much. _ )

Once she leaves, he says, "So, what I've been hearing - is it true? You bein', you know?"

Philip grunts, grimacing.

"Oh, don't be like that! You know exactly what I'm talkin' about."

"I know that most of my students were put into my specific class by the dean," Philip says, and ignores when his meal is placed neatly in front of his hands ( _ wait, where's the waitress? _ ). "I'd like to think my behavior wouldn't influence something like that, but… no, I'm not surprised. I am, however, curious as to what  _ exactly _ you think you're talking about."

Clarence's eyes dart, sharp as poisoned knives. "I've heard a great deal. You've made a reputation for yourself, my dear ol' pal. Shouting at the dean? Starting' a damn protest on the campus' front lawn? Big balls there, meathead. Stupid, of course."

"They were going to cut funding to a project of mine that was close to producing results, and the dean was avoiding me. And don't listen to everything you hear - might not all be true."

"But?"

"...But yes, I did start a… well, it definitely wasn't organized at all, and I hadn't expected the crowd, but - yes, a protest. I think, of anyone, you'd agree with the decision," Philip huffs. "I may not study philosophy, but I know misinformed, ignorant codswallop when I see it. I couldn't stand by and watch it be published as inherent truths society is supposed to adhere to. To present  _ that _ shit as the gold standard of what our brightest minds can think of in this modern time - well, I almost wish I had pissed on those useless wastes of paper and ink."

Clarence blinks. "What on unholy Earth was on those papers?"

Philip grimaces again, thinking back. It'd only been… what, last year? He's not sure. It had happened, and he hadn't lost his job so he's since dismissed the entire mess. And it isn't like his actions had no consequence; now, everyone's work is as intensely peer reviewed as the science department's, ensuring that nothing so baseless and  _ wrong, _ intentional or not, will be coming close to a publishing agent's desk anytime soon. And the simple matter is that even he, with very little background in philosophy and language, could tell that the papers were so drastically incorrect… well, he's glad he did what he did. Even if some disagree with his methods.

( _ or some who just outright disagree with his perspective of the papers. sometimes it feels more like his colleagues are some sort of senseless  _ They _ rather than individuals. _ )

"It wasn't as horrendous as it seems," Philip says. Perhaps a lie, but he's uncertain. "The problem was that no one was  _ listening. _ I understand that the chancellor and his assistants are very busy people, but letting something like that enter the public domain, as an educational resource?"

"Couldn't let the little kiddies fill their empty, hollow heads up with bad ideas like that, eh, monkey? Bein' a little goodie two shoes, eh, Philip?" His voice goes dark, sharp as his eyes.

Philip frowns, not appreciating Clarence's mocking tone. "That wasn't it. It wasn't for children. It was for  _ the general public. _ If you'd--"

"If I'd read it, yeah. So, since I can't read it, since you, ya know, don't have it, why don't you try your darndest to tell me?" Clarence smiles without teeth. "Or is it really too difficult for you? Easier to deflect, isn't it?"

Philip blinks, a dizziness briefly overcoming him. Almost like deja vu, but he can't make sense of it. He turns his fork in his eggs ( _ why did he order eggs? he wanted a sandwich _ ), digesting his argument. He doesn't want to have to backtrack his words due to misphrasing, especially since Clarence's mood seems to turn on an invisible dime.

"The nature of identity," he starts, and Clarence picks his head up, attentive. "Is highly subjective, I know that. And I do understand that part of the study of philosophy is the exploration of that, but I don't believe that just anything should be nodded and smiled at.

"What I believe - well, it shouldn't factor at all in this, now should it? But I do believe that people, as a whole, are highly sensitive to information from those in academia. Those papers were directed at an uninformed populace - and perhaps it would've faded into obscurity, but that would be too much to hope for. Too many papers like it come into the public view, and before anyone can halt it, misinformation is boiling over, drowning people out. So many things are violently misunderstood, and within years the belief that such studies are truth becomes so ingrained that it is taboo to believe otherwise.

"Matters like health, physical or otherwise, become muddied waters to navigate. And it is entirely too frustrating having a student persist in following the 'rules' laid out in a decades old research paper that,  _ even at that time, _ was wildly incorrect. I do not believe, as a society, we should dismiss our concerns and leave them to stagnate and rot, pretending they might disappear; they cannot and will not. More likely than not, a malicious person or group will find it and use it to manipulate others to their own ends."

Philip pauses for breath, and lowers his fork, realizing he'd half raised it in a passionate gesture.

"You've put a lot more thought into this than I thought you capable of," says Clarence, and Philip nearly jumps out of his seat. He'd forgotten his audience; it is rare that he speaks his mind, more interested in solitary study than giving himself over to spoken thought. It consumes more of his time than he prefers. "Never thought I'd see the day the little professor yapped his gob off about something besides formulae."

Clarence… the  _ look _ Clarence is giving him doesn't help the floating sensation starting in his chest, a half lidded look of attention, his mouth an abstract line of consideration.

( _ never thought i'd see the day clarence sits down and listens to something he has no interest in, let alone not going off on a tangent wholely his own. _ )

He taps his fingers on the table, a hum rising in the back of his throat before he quashes the impulse. When he takes too long to speak, Clarence gestures lazily, eyes still unblinkingly watching him. "Oh, by all means, do continue! Not like I'm payin' for it."

Philip grimaces, realizing they'd been long enough that no doubt the waitress would be back any minute, with either a request to order more or to get out. He clears his throat, strangely nervous, strangely excited. Not many people had been curious beyond the  _ why did you nearly start a riot in front of a University, what's wrong with you _ thing - not asking  _ what was in the papers. _ He dismisses the thought that he might've been a tad bit dramatic, but what catches attention  _ is _ what catches attention.

"To… To that end," he starts again, slow at first but quickly picking up speed, "To that end, I've decided to join in on peer review and to keep myself up to date with published or soon to be published studies. This paper that I indeed protested was one of them.

"As I mentioned before, it was a philosophical study on identity - to be clear, it was an analysis of individual identity, group identities, and how the two relate in some way. It drew correlations that did have some bearing, but what drew my attention so strongly was its look on group  _ behaviors, _ how those influence an individual's identity in some way. It wasn't an undetailed look, either; complex and strange, definitely, and I confess that it was not without merit.

"But as I read on, as I found myself nodding along and agreeing, I began to feel… a slither of something. Something was… off… in some way. At first I chalked it up to my being unread on such matters, but that feeling of  _ wrong _ grew and grew. I could not understand why - that is, not until I read those  _ words… _

"Quote:  _ 'It can be understood as a truth that a species represents itself; a singular person, taking on the identity of the larger group, can therefore represent the group as a whole. We as individuals are alone, indisputably so, but when we gather together and take on a greater identity, one created from us all, we become a singular being with many arms. In this way, we are united in a singular purpose, a singular identity, rather than a conglomerate of conflicting personalities. When we group together and become each other - if you will - we lose the inherent violence that disagreeing incites.' _ End quote. Can you see? Why I felt the way I did?

"Nothing was so striking to me as that paragraph. Nothing so… misguided has ever been told to me, presented with such a conviction that I was so deeply worried. The repercussions of publishing such a paper…" Philip stops. "You're…"

Clarence… the faceless mask of his features, an amorphous, nebulous blob of colour, of strange eyes and a sliced mouth - all of it reads as  _ deeply bewildered. _ Before his eyes, that bewilderment transforms; giving way to confusion, then to some kind of uncertainty, and finally a blankness that tastes of fear and defensiveness.

"Maybe, I don't know, you're just too sensitive," his dinner companion states, eyes shadowed, almost unreadable. Almost. "Most people  _ want _ to be together. They  _ want _ to form a more… fulfillin' group. Bein' part of somethin' is sometimes all anyone needs; but you're here, all up on your high horse, your pea sized speckle of a brain strugglin' to spit at the sentiment."

Philip feels off balance, like he's lost track of the conversation. Something inside him is shocked at Clarence's response; as if he had been expecting an agreement. No - he  _ had _ been. But why? Clarence himself seems to hold at least a little uncertainty, a little surprise, at his own words, but it's only the barest amount. That barest amount vanishes, and quickly.

"So what if someone gets their little brains washed? Is that what you think they're suggesting?" Clarence continues. "Because what I hear is that  _ us, _ together, is better than  _ you, _ alone."

If a pebble were to drop at this very moment, it'd be ear shatteringly loud.

Philip rouses himself. "A person, an individual -  _ I _ \- will always be motivated by my own -  _ their _ own - choices. A person subsumed into a group, where there is only the singular identity, a singular drive - they will always be pushed forward by a combined motivation. Not one person in that group would be able to commit to their own choices - good or bad - as their own; no, it would always be the collective's choice, influenced by the collective's motivation, by its drive. Do not assume I was looking for a reason to discount those words, and don't argue semantics with me."

"You're thinkin' what they're talkin' about is some sort of hive, something to be reviled," Clarence soldiers on, unflinching in the eye of Philip's ire. "Once more, my friend, you're thinkin' only from  _ your _ perspective. It seems I'm always repeating myself to you - again, why does it matter if a person no longer controls solely their own actions? If they chose cohesive companionship, if they become part of a  _ we _ instead of stayin' isolated as an  _ I  _ \-- then what place do you hold that you can protest it?"

"I do not have an answer for that," Philip brings himself to admit. To his mild surprise ( _ and, perhaps, to his mild annoyance _ ), Clarence doesn't seem pleased by his ignorance. If anything, his nonface becomes even more animated, something more than defensiveness but less than outright anger bleeding through the blur. "But I can't  _ not _ protest it. To me, the core of human identity is the individual; an individual's history, an individual's choice - perhaps, even, an individual's nature. To box that in, to claim that a group identity is better than an individual - I can't agree with that, and I can't let it be presented as an inherent truth."

"You've surprised me, monkey. Really, truly; I'm in shock!"

"I don't know what you mean by that, but neither do I care." He's grown frustrated, but… he cannot help his curiosity. "Forgetting a person's choice to lose their own individual will, since I don't have an answer to it - why? Why are we disagreeing?

Clarence looks thoughtful, silenced. And then, as suddenly as he fell quiet, he speaks. "Is it so difficult to see how much stronger a group - workin' as a single identity, not so much united as formed into one - is compared to one puny little human? There's nothin' stupider than a blind, ignorant, half evolved ape roamin' round unsupervised."

"You can't claim that every person on the planet is less capable when acting as an individual; not only is that generalizing humanity as a whole, it discredits us greatly. What are you always calling me? Monkey? Well, Clarence, I--"

"-- _ Don't. _ Finish that sentence," Clarence snarls, so suddenly that Philip's mouth audibly clicks shut. The minutes drag on; the diner's clock is a dim sound in the back of his mind.

He watches Clarence in silence, thoughts churning. He can't figure out  _ why _ he had so strongly expected Clarence to agree with him; whether to get him to stop talking or as a genuine agreement, he's not sure. Maybe he should've expected such a disagreement, but he can't understand it. Oh, plenty of others had, but none had explained  _ why. _ And for some reason, while he could dismiss others, he can't dismiss Clarence - nor can he dismiss the insistent curiosity, tugging at his lips,  _ wondering wondering wondering. _

He supposes he can haphazardly sympathize, but that's a limited, flawed way of understanding another person's argument. The closest he can compare what Clarence is talking about is familial connection, but he's certain that that's not what his companion means. He's yet to meet a single person who has good, healthy relations with their parents or siblings. It's not a conclusion he finds satiating; his curiosity only grows.

"How 'bout this," the stranger murmurs, a low intonation that feels more like a growl than a murmur. "How 'bout we make this a proper debate. We each take turns sayin' our piece, and whoever loses their train of thought admits they're a brainless moron better suited to growin' in a culture than tryin' to teach other brainless idiots how to spell  _ carcinogenic. _ Capiche?"

Philip, grim but accepting of Clarence's terms, nods. He breathes in deeply, fingertips tapping a soundless rhythm against his palms. "I'll go first. Choice is a core part of an identity, and desecrating that is tantamount to mockery of the human condition."

Clarence smiles. "What purpose does a thing like choice have for a purposeless existence beings such as we hold? Better to forge our own lives without pickin' at the particulars of  _ choice. _ "

"Our existences may be purposeless, but that does not negate the need for self control. Freedom to choose how we conduct ourselves is integral to our identities as people, and so choice, regardless of whether we 'pick at it', is vital."

"And I say that there is a comfort in havin' no choice, in bein' given an identity and a direction, a way to step forward amongst many rather than stumblin' along with such a fragile and pitiful thing as freedom."

"You treat freedom as if it were something to be given or taken away, when really it is something part of our very being. Everyone is born with freedom of choice; it is only our circumstances and social upbringing that forms our senses of that facet of our identity. To believe that you can easily discard it, and that you would be better off - I can't understand that."

"You're like a damn ping pong ball, monkey! Always returnin' to the same mute point. Even if I can't discard my 'freedom,' when I become part of a whole, when the whole becomes part of me, I no longer am beholden to  _ choosing  _ my own path. No, no, not any longer. I am choosin'  _ our _ path,  _ we're  _ choosing my path. A multifaceted being, formed from us and us alone."

Philip's eyes widen; his brow furrows. "What you are saying - perhaps what we should be doing, instead, is describing the  _ why's  _ and  _ why nots, _ not the  _ what. _ Because I know what you are saying now - but I will never agree with it."

"Oh boy, this is turnin' into a speedy little back an' forth. Alright, monkey." Clarence nods easily enough. His eyes glimmer, a shine too bright to see. "But it's my turn now."

He turns a sharp gaze to the creature across from him, trying and failing to say  _ no. _ And why should he? He's too curious to back out now, and the challenge - to convince Clarence that he's  _ wrong _ \- is too enticing. He nods, not dipping his head further than Clarence had.

"Well well well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Here goes nothin': alone, with all the pretty choices and that pretty, pretty  _ freedom, _ I am blind and ignorant. I go about my life as dumb as a bird, goin' by what's easy pickings for me, rather than what I want. I'm taught to love the orchestra and crab poppers? So I eat crab poppers and listen to orchestral music! If I become a  _ we, _ we are no longer tied to those petty little conundrums. Instead,  _ we _ go to concerts and eat Twinkies like actual fuckin' people rather than like numbskulls with too much money."

"But  _ we _ only do things  _ we  _ want to do; nothing is kept to one person, everything becomes part of  _ us, _ " Philip shoots back. "When  _ I _ decide to do something, I am certain it is due to myself and myself alone. Whether other influences push me in one direction or another, I arrive to my decisions by my own means. If I were to become a  _ we, _ my choices are never to be solely my own; they'd be the collective's, and they would convince me that my desires align with the greater whole, regardless of what I truly feel."

"You forget,  _ again, _ that this isn't about some hive mind. This is an amalgamation, so deeply entwined that nothing is separate, nothing is missed. All of us are each other: we hold each other's faces, and all of those faces are the same. There is no  _ I _ that protests; there is only  _ us _ that moves forward. It is a comfortable thought, to no longer force oneself to choose one's own future blindly. Together, we can see the future and choose the best possible route for us all. No longer limited or pressured to act by our instincts and  _ feelings. _ "

" _ Together, _ we are limited," Philip hisses. " _ Together, _ we become nothing more than a charade of a being; made of many, we become nothing. As individuals, we already contain multitudes of ourselves. The self that does what is disregarded but necessary all the same, the self that speaks and teaches and learns, the self when we are alone with our thoughts, digesting the things we'll never share with others; all of those  _ matter. _ To join a greater being, we are squashed beneath the weight of so many; we become flat, speechless, faceless. One of a crowd that moves onward, operating only on mob violence."

"And alone, crowded out by our thoughts, we become instructed by impulses and instincts that serve no one but ourselves," Clarence launches back. "A cesspit of thoughts, destructive to everyone and everything around us. To call that the opposite of unnatural - say, call it for what it is! Civilization itself is built from our desires to comingle ourselves, to integrate our impulses into one force. How could it be wrong to push out the ills we suffer together?"

"To treat our eccentricities as an infection is a mistake. Forcing others to conform to an expectation defined by an arbitrary standard - that is a fundamental misunderstanding of what society's function is, and it is exactly why pushing a collective identity as superior to an individual one is most certainly  _ wrong. _ "

"Violent desires bequeath violent flowers; without a thousand thoughts rattlin' round one's mind, with the support of our bedfellows, we are at peace, within our own minds and within each other."

"So crowded together - Isn't it suffocating? You will never be left to yourself, no; always there will be another, and another, except they won't be  _ other, _ because you will be so sunk down deep within the mire of your nothingness that you will lose all sense of the separation between your pulses."

"You…"

There is a wordless fragrance in the diner. And for several long, achingly long moments, there is nothing said, nothing voiced. Philip comes to himself slowly; he's standing, Clarence a looming presence, sitting across the table. Somehow, as Clarence meets his gaze, he feels as though something foreign has overtaken him; his tongue is a raw creature in his mouth, and he's breathless, exhilarated.

Shock; why?

( _ you… you agree, more than you ever have before. _ )

He blinks first. And Clarence comes alive, fire riding high from the belly of an iron kettle.

"I grow tired of this," says the figure, the figment, darkening over him. "We're just goin' in circles! What reason do you have to keep diggin', Philip? What answer do you expect to find, in an empty truck stop diner on a Tuesday night?"

"I don't expect one," Philip says, and he's surprised to realize that he's speaking truthfully. "I… want to know you."

( _ i already know you, of course i do, how could i not - and yet, your face is not one i recognize. _ )

Clarence raises his head, a slow movement heavy with thoughts Philip can't read ( _ but suddenly, he so desperately wants to _ ). His eyes are shards of glass, alien - familiar. "Oh, but you  _ do _ know me, Philip. I'd say you know me better than I know myself, not that that says much."

* * *

The papers in his bag are drawn out after another order of mango juice and a soft boiled egg. If Philip recalls the rest of the conversation, it goes much the same way of the first; light in visual spectres, phantom syllables remnant in his ear, but nothing so delicately captured as the spitfire fast dialogue of before.


	5. one foot leads to another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Must've skipped the mission and joined the team  
>  For a ride  
> A couple hours to learn the controls  
> And commandeer both my eyes  
> Hey!  
> Be quick dear, times are uncertain  
> One month crawling, next year blurring  
> Decades in the drain  
> Monograms on the brain  
> Decide what's working and what's moved on  
> To the last phase  
> The furtive alien days  
> I love those alien days  
> Mmm...the alien days_
> 
> _And in the summer, virgin fishes  
>  Mindless humming  
> Understate desire  
> Everyday's supposed to smile  
> Today, find infinite ways it could be  
> Plenty worse  
> It's a blessing but it's also a curse_
> 
> _And when the light is new  
>  The sky shows trembling cartoons  
> You don't need smoke to cover  
> Most of the world in a gloom  
> But here comes racer number 7  
> Watch my fingers ripping out the lines  
> If it looks like we could lose  
> If it looks like we could lose..._
> 
> _ [MGMT - Alien Days](https://youtu.be/FbK5idPn1mc) _

It becomes routine, after that. Whether it's daily or not, he can't tell; the fog that's followed him since before the day he met Clarence persists, drowning time in its opaque body like the rising waters of a flood would a house.

_ " _ Where did you go? When you left _ ,"  _ Philip says, and for a moment he wonders what he himself means, before realizing that the other had gone traveling years before. Something about experiencing what he was researching genuinely rather than behind some dull desk _. " _ You visited Egypt more recently; where have you been besides there? _ " _

_ " _ I woulda thought you'd ask sooner _ ,"  _ Clarence laughs, mocking, jesting. He stirs his coffee, the whip cream he'd snarkily requested spilling a gentle trail down the side of the cup, unnoticed. _ " _ Went to Prussia, if you can believe it. Saw some creepy shit, met some creepy little monkeys up to no good. Wouldn't ya know it, but they didn't keep me there _." _

_ " _ Nothing can keep you anywhere, if you have no wish to remain there _ ,"  _ says he, and there's no sign of the touch of the inexplicable fondness he feels, deep within himself. _ " _ You're too much of a bastard _." _

_ " _ Yeah. You'd think that _." _

Life continues as life is wont to; papers to grade, studies to review, projects to oversee and conclude. His own passion projects are small compared to his colleagues' work; he enjoys numbers, variables. Nothing is quite so beautiful as a difficult formula finding its answer, drawing a line further into a more complex equation. Nothing is quite so evocative to him as those rare moments wherein he truly uncovers something; a solution, sometimes, but more and more commonly questions he has not seen from his colleagues. He does not share them; what point is there in voicing an unnecessary question? No, better to savour the privacy of knowing, all for himself.

Well, for Clarence as well.

_ " _ You don't tell them _?"  _ Clarence asks, and Philip shakes his head. _ " _ Wow! What a devious little upstart you are! Whyever not? Why seal your tongue to steal your words, little monkey _?" _

_ " _ I doubt you'd understand _." _

_ " _ No, no! Get on with your soliloquy, monkey. Wax lyrical _." _

Philip rolls his eyes, but finds himself speaking regardless. _ " _ There's something satisfying in finding something and keeping it hidden. Finder's keeper's, I think you'd call it. _ " _

Clarence answers with a grin.

Time is a cascade, dragging, blurring. He sees Clarence with growing regularity, and he settles. That absurd feeling of familiarity begins to fade as he learns of the other; even as he is sometimes struck by strange convictions, he becomes more set within the reality of actually  _ knowing _ . ( _ he's not who i expect _ .)

( _ who do i expect? _ )

( _ perhaps someone who smiles less, mischievous or not. perhaps someone with a more deliberate tongue. _ )

Sometimes it's like he thought Clarence was someone else entirely, since the moment they met; like an afterimage that refuses to dissipate entirely. But Clarence is so much more  _ living  _ than that abstract shade, so he does his best to ignore the lies his mind holds unnatural faith in.

_ " _ What exactly do you think I study _?" _

The question is out of the blue, enough to pull his attention from where he's laid his eye for the last fifteen minutes or so; a graceful duck glides over still pond water, incandescent in the midlight. It was strange; the first time Clarence had wanted to meet outside the diner. The same nervous student, pressing the same faint, worn note into his hands.

( _ i have a hankering for bird, specifically of the living variety. where do you think i've gone off to? _ )

His impulse, the thing sticking to the roof of his mouth, is to say _ "linguistics, archeology,"  _ and he's not sure why. The uncertainty, the unease, keeps his mouth shut.

_ " _ As evasive as ever, huh _ ,"  _ says the stranger. He can see the flicker of bone bright teeth in the corner of his eye. _ " _ If you're so unsure, how can I be certain of it myself _?" _

The question haunts him more than he knows.

Blood in the water where he expected oil; to turn pink and diluted, instead of thickly separated.

He thinks it is the fog, the blanket of white obscuration that dogs him, forever and always, that only abates momentarily when he speaks with Clarence. As if the people he sees beyond the faceless being are nothing more than shadows, puppets to surround himself with until he sees Clarence again.

_ ( _ Where is your face _ , he contemplates saying and never does.  _ Who stole your face, Clarence? _ ) _

_ " _ Yknow, bein' a parasite isn't all it's cracked up to be _ ,"  _ Clarence says, and Philip keeps his mouth shut ( _ as always, as a necessity) _ . _ " _ Isn't worth anything at all, bein' all tied up with somethin' diseased and dying. _ " _

_ " _ Dying? _ "  _ Philip asks, anxious, but Clarence has already forgotten the subject, moving onto another rambling nonsequitur on the value of facial hair. According to his companion, it is disturbing in the extreme to see creatures evolved from hairy bipeds to once more coat themselves in fur. Philip would impolitely disagree, but he's fine letting the other angrily mutter while he watches the bland sky for interesting shapes. He finds none. 

Clarence doesn't make for a…  _ friendly  _ companion. He skirts around the truth of his statements, even as he speaks so boldly; it's almost as if he's constantly searching for a way to get under Philip's skin, itching around with needy fingers. But he sometimes looks at Philip with confusion, and it's those times Philip feels are the best; then, both of them are disorientated, dropped into ill suited roles that fit loosely, abrasively.

_ " _ What do you think? _ " _ Clarence asks, and Philip tries to recall the question.

_ " _ What do you mean? _ " _

_ " _ Parasites, death, all that hullabaloo bullshit. You know,  _ death _ . What do you think happens to us? _ " _

_ " _ You care about that?, _ " _ Philip says.  _ " _ There’s nowhere left to go, once we die. You’re there, and then you’re gone, right? Death is the final unknown. _ " _

_ “ _ It’s not that I care, monkey. I’m curious as to whatever goes on through  _ your _ head, _ ” _ Clarence gestures rudely, nearly smacking Philip in the face before he leans away.  _ “ _ The final unknown, huh? Can’t say whether I agree or not. _ ” _

_ “ _ Whether you agree or not doesn’t matter. Everyone dies, it’s not like you won’t have your question answered eventually. Isn’t it better to just leave it alone, then? _ ” _

Clarence scoffs.  _ “ _ You can be so borin’ sometimes, Philip. All I was askin’ ya was what  _ you _ think. _ ” _

Philip sighs, and decides to let the conversation stagnate, turn rancid in empty air. Obviously his companion has no patience for that; before they depart each other’s company, Philip gets his head grabbed, his hair pulled; Clarence doesn’t yank, doesn’t even shake him, just digs his fingers into Philip’s hair and  _ holds _ him with a white knuckled grip.

Their heights get so confusing. This time, Clarence is shorter than him; he pulls Philip in close, not saying a word, staring with empty black eyes that burn with an anger that doesn’t show on the rest of his calm, placid expression.

His scalp aches, and when Clarence finally lets him go, neither of them having said a word - several strands slip away, caught in Clarence’s grasp.

He doesn’t think he’s supposed to expect this.


	6. during the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Sorry, I'll have to kill you,  
>  As it's the only way I'll know for sure  
> That there will never be  
> Anything possible between us again, perhaps._
> 
> _I'll have to kill you,  
>  As it's the only way I'll know for sure  
> That there will never be  
> Anything possible between us again, perhaps._
> 
> _Red, down the drywall,  
>  You're flowing like a river.  
> You've cast your eyes down.   
> “What's wrong?” -  
> I'll explain it later; sleep_
> 
> _Like in old age, during the night,  
>  You'll leave and won't even notice it.  
> I've chosen a softer pillow_
> 
> _Sorry, I'll have to kill you,  
>  As it's the only way I'll know for sure  
> That there will never be  
> Anything possible between us again, perhaps._
> 
> _I'll have to kill myself,  
>  As it's the only way you'll know for sure  
> That there will never be  
> Anything possible between us again, perhaps._
> 
> _ [Мы - Возможно](https://youtu.be/B1yIJ706i78) _

The only things besides the expected-- 

( _ and he has grown to expect the fog, to expect clarence and his peculiar, sudden violence - _

breaking glass. clarence threw the cup like it was nothing, grasped a butter knife like it was a weapon. and still, Philip remained; remained until clarence sat back down, laughter a dull, dead thing in his throat. the outburst was sudden and apropos of nothing, and yet it felt all the more deserved for Philip's silence.

_ \- and he has always expected alienation, from that first moment someone asked after his father. _ )

\--the only things besides the expected are the dreams. The only things to truly disturb him.

* * *

_ They've got dark, curly hair, short but long enough to slip down their cheek when they tilt their head. There's something in their bright eyes, something far away that he can't read. _

_ " _ 「He so wanted to, but we would not let him die.」 _ why do you think that is, philip?" _

_ At first, he can't respond; simply watches them, them and the shadow of their face, an image he suddenly realizes he can't see because he cannot recall it. Somehow, the words find a way outside of his mind.  _ " _ I think that, if they had any choice, they'd prefer life to death, even if it is unwilling. _ "

_ Their eyes grow brighter, stars caught in the dark expanse of their nothingness. "then why harm you? what can be gained from it? _ 「It's not too late just to slam your head against the wall until you pass out. It might be easier than carrying on.」 _ tell me, philip, why you believe the desire to live is stronger than the disgust at living itself." _

_ Philip shakes his head, heart in his throat, lungs weak in his chest. This isn't right. This isn't how this goes, and the person across from him is speaking riddles they have no right to know. _

_ "you pretend that what you see is all there is; an angry, violent invader, and you - the stalwart defender, pushing past every adversary, even the ones inside your own head." _

_ Colours-- _

_ There's a wheezing sound, panicked in its own weight, and he realizes as his vision dims that the noise is coming from him.  _

_ Colours-- _

_ They swirl, spiraling from the apparition's eye, blending into their hair, their skin. Until there is nothing left. _

_ There is something left. Abandoned. But left behind, all the same. _

_ The hollow feeling spreading its roots in his chest from childhood is beginning to bloom. Across from him, the same apparition collects from the black; fragile as willow, but he knows their teeth draw blood. They curve their head, an angle that cuts lines into the deep colour of their face. Their unreadable, distant face; it pangs him, pains him. _

_ There are no words to be shared; he knows this, and yet the words he doesn't want to say begin to bubble forth. "You're leaving?" _

_ It's a question, a plea. He knows the answer already, as he must. It's not a surprise. It still hurts. _

_ "You know what I'm going to say, Philip," they deign to say. There's pity there, but it's weak, the lapping waves of frustration and impatience so much stronger. "You know what I'm going to say, and yet you still ask?" _

_ "I," Philip starts. Stops. Breathes unsteadily, tries not to. Starts again. "I know, but I'd rather hear it from you." _

_ "Fat lot of good that is, asking  _ now. _ If you actually cared, why didn't you ask before? Not that it would've changed anything." _

_ They sneer, and it is the most expressive they've been around him since that first tumultuous meeting. Philip's mouth is dry. "I did care. I still do. You can't just--" _

_ 「 _ ...Philip… _ 」 _

_ An unfamiliar voice. ( _ oh, it is familiar, more than it should be _ ) He doesn't turn his gaze from them. _

_ "I can, Philip, and I will." Words unspoken, never to be. He can hear them anyway, and knows them to be true. _

_ 「 _ Philip… _ 」 _

_ They vanish. Like they'd never been there at all; and, somehow, it dawns on him that it really will be like they'd never been in his life at all. He hardly knew them. He hardly cared. The thing he thought was pain is gone; he's not numb, but he's not feeling anything at all. He takes a shaking breath, and tries to sort himself out. Concludes it's a wasted effort, and instead clears his throat and dusts his coat. _

_ 「 _ Hey, you there, monkey? This thing even on?! _ 」 _

_ Again, things melt and change, but he's older and colder, now. According to some, he's always been cold, but now it permeates from him, sinks its teeth down deep into the marrow of his bones. _

_ When he turns around, he's facing no one - nothing at all. And yet, there is a presence there; something leering, something familiar.  _

_ The lump in his throat grows; his teeth ache. His left eye pulses with a phantom pain as the darkness overlays with the ghost of a corridor, checkered linoleum and dirty walls squeezing around him. _

_ 「 _ Not so chatty now, are ya _ 」the parasite says, and if it sounds a bit lacklustre, well, Philip hardly notices.「 _ Listen here, Philip. Ever wonder why I couldn't just wrangle your puny little brain under my thumb? Squash you down 'til you're nothing, nothing at all, just like I was - just a little voice in the gloom, nattering on in the ear of the bleedin'  _ hero.」 _

_ Philip swallows; he squeezes his eyes shut, but the hallway doesn't disappear beneath his eyelids, still dim and burning into his vision. He refuses his tongue. He  _ won't answer _. Not to  _ fucking _ Clarence. _

_ A harsh sigh; strange to hear, but he's gotten used to the unsettling sound of Clarence, the constant push of pain at each syllable it utters into his cranium space.「 _ There's nothin' that was stoppin' me, monkey. Nothing at all. And after all that business, now that we're both stuck here - wouldn't you say it's time for some kind of… _ 」 _

_ The words fumble, fade away unnaturally. It seems to have lost its train of thought. Philip doesn't prompt it. He's… growing steadily more confused. He knows they're not in the Shelter - the walls too thick, something heavy and full just beyond this narrow false hallway. Clarence, he knows, is definitely not as it was; what Clarence was before, Philip can't even say, but there's something decidedly foreign to its behavior. Like… watercolors on canvas, once pure in medium, before a mysterious hand begins to marr the surface with chalk pastels, or charcoal. He finds himself put off of such metaphors all of a sudden; Clarence is nothing like colours, and nothing like the visual arts. _

_ He steals a glance to the presence of its shadow, a lance of fire piercing through his eye before he bites back a question. Again, his attention is caught within the folds of its… thoughtful, pensive state. _

_ They are not where they were; Clarence is not as it was. He can hardly press himself to remember what had been happening before, the memories like mist in his hair; he finds himself cold, missing. He's missing something, and the sensation is a stone in his throat. _

_ 「 _ No, no, don't do that, you coward _ 」The snarl catches him off guard, and he meets a pair of eyes that shouldn't exist.「 _ No, we're not done playin' yet. Yeah, yeah - let's play a little game, just a little one, eh, Philip? Settle down with your ol' Uncle Clarence, he'll show ya a good time. _ 」 _

_ Philip sneers, disgusted, but he stops moving - he hadn't even realized he'd been turning away, leaving the virus behind. He tries to swallow down the anxious unease the blurring blue-green eyes inspire within him - tries to convince himself they're not  _ there _ , that Clarence is just trying to psyche him out. _

_ 「 _ Alright, alright, good, very good. Very good _ 」Clarence… Clarence smiles, a brilliant scar in the inky warm black.「 _ Here's the rules: you listen to me,  _ really _ listen, and I'll stop this trainwreck of a brain you've got screamin' in your pretty little skull. _ 」 _

Or what _? Philip bites deep into his cheek, but the blood never wells up from the wound. _

_ 「 _ You really don't know what's goin' on in this circus of yours, do ya, Ringmaster Monkey? Just flopped over droolin', thinkin' about bananas instead of watchin' the lions prowlin' just feet away. Are you afraid, hidden as you are? I wonder. _ 」 _

Always _. From the darkness, a glimmer. _

_ 「 _ For all your pathetic, human cowardice, you've got some gumption to ya _ 」Clarence says. The glimmer grows, lengthens; begins to take shape.「 _ And this trainwreck of yours - why, it's got me trapped in the damn dining car, short twenty-five bucks cuz some asshole in a vest wanted to milk me for a coffee and a Snickers. Ya see, monkey? You're fucked, I'm fucked - understand, numbskull? _ 」 _

_ Out of the darkness, he can see a figure - its shoulders tense, fists curled at its sides. The foul light draws a crescent over its skull, hair a faint static halo curling over its forehead. _

_ He recognizes it. _

_ 「 _ Ah, forgettin' all that from before - all that talk of death and doom, haha. Give and take, Philip, and with that damned elixer you've swallowed, you've just taken a big ol' dump on me. _ 」 _

_ Talking, talking, talking - God, Philip can't take his eyes away from it.  _

_ He can't breathe. _

_ 「 _ Take, I say take - blah, forget the lexicon. What you've done, Philip, is given me somethin' I didn't want, but now I find myself…  _ hesitant _ to return the gift. _ 」 _

_ A hand, long fingers, blunt nails; it reaches out, and his lungs shudder as its hand grasps his shoulder. His eyes water; the left one is a wellspring of agony, igniting a root deep sickness. _

_ 「 _ To be frank with you, even with this… cursed thing you've seen fit to lodge into me, I find myself with no regret. You see, Philip, even with all these things lurkin' in my headspace, I can't stop despising you, you with your disgusting wet meat body, your complete incompetence and borderline concerning willful blindness. I  _ despise  _ you. _ 」 _

_ The hand clenches tight, and as Philip finally begins to struggle, tries to escape, it pulls him close. _

_ 「 _ I can't kill myself _ 」his reflection says through gritted teeth, wild eyed and terrifying. 「 _ And I won't let you kill me. So we are at an impasse, aren't we, dear monkey? You've given me this  _ wonderful _ gift, and all I've got to do is slow the disaster goin' on in your weak, sweaty, four limbed body 'fore your brain decides to say  _ so sad, too bad _ . _ 」 _

_ Everything - everything, a reflection, eerie and overwhelming, its fist gripping him close, so close he can see the flecks of colour in its iris, a perfect mirror image of his own.  _ How could  _ he _ recognize it _?  _ How could _ he  _ not _? _

_ A scoff.「 _ You wax lyrical at every opportunity - well, outside of a life or death situation, but I won't applaud you for that. _ 」 _

What are you going to do, Clarence?

_ 「 _ Nothin', silly billy _ 」a pause. A grin, macabre for how it fits across his face.「 _ This is the most fun I've had so far, and who knows! Maybe you'll survive it. _ 」 _

No, no, no --

_ Vapour, thick enough to choke on, clouding around him - he flails in the darkness, something viscous dripping from the cavern where his left eye used to be. Blood, he knows, and he raises his hand to feel it but swallows the pills instead. _

_ Everything, pounding down against his back, crushing him,  _ crushing _ him, and he raises another to his lips, then another, another, a haze overcoming him. _

_ Slowly, slowly, his breathing evens out. He can't recall the reason his hands shake. Can't recall why his eyes are wet. The taste on his tongue is the colour Red. _

_ 「Jesus, how long was that?」an alien voice says, and he knows without the pills the grating sound would've ground its heels into the soft meat of his skull.「You'd think that at the very least you'd have a clock in here, but you'd guess wrong! The accommodations are sorely lackin', monkey man. It's not too late just to slam your head against the wall until you pass out, you know. Might be easier than carrying on. That pain of yours - it'll kill you sooner or later, so why not get it done an' over with?」 _

_ Philip closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. _

Get up _, he tells himself,_ and get moving. 

_ And he does. _


	7. don't lie to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Don't you lie, don't lie to me  
>  That you're not afraid, my love  
> I know you well enough to know  
> You can't be alone_
> 
> _If you were to roll, to roll down your window  
>  You'd find the wind, the ice, the trees  
> That sway like skeletons outside_
> 
> _But when the cold, the dark, and the silence come  
>  It's like a sudden rush of water through your heart and lungs_
> 
> _Please don't fight, don't fight with me  
>  And fold your arms like it's the end  
> Can you smell the sweetness of the soil and snow in the wind?_
> 
> _So we're lost, we're lost out here on the plains, my love  
>  It's only wind and ice and trees that wave from above_
> 
> _Don't lie  
>  Don't cry  
> It's over  
> It's only the leaves, the trees  
> I'll never leave you alone  
> In this car  
> In the dark, with the air getting so much colder  
> It's so clear outside here, in the moon and winter air_
> 
> _ [Sea Wolf - The Cold, The Dark, & The Silence](https://youtu.be/5J2j2Zz4esI) _

Repeating images - dreams come from memories, he knows, but when he wakes all he knows is a sense of knowing. He knows his dreams, intimately so, and yet he cannot scramble for the words of what they were.

He thinks he sees Clarence, in different places, as people he isn't and had never been. It disturbs him, upon waking; but as the morning hours drag into afternoon, he forgets.

At least until the next morning, he forgets.

* * *

"...Pay close attention to this variable when computing the magnitude of the red shift," Philip is saying, gesturing at one of the scribbles he's put on the board. At this point, he's not sure what he's talking about or why, but the students watch on with shiny eyes. "Once you've input the variables, you'll receive this output - if not, check your equation. Ensure that it is the right formula and that you've correctly identified the necessary functions."

His eyes skirt to the clock, hanging high above the student's heads at the back of the room. "And that'll be all for today, class, I've a meeting to attend to. You know my office hours in case you need assistance."

As one, the students gather up their things and crowd at the doorway, slowly filing out. He watches them, tapping his fingers on his piles of books and papers. As the last people disappear into the dim lit hall beyond his lecture room, he turns and erases the board with a too rough hand. His computer off, all he has to do now is to… is to…

What had he said? A meeting? He doesn't have a meeting; there is nothing scheduled. He lingers, the cloth in his hands a reminder that he has yet to request a whiteboard replacement for the chalkboard that rests there. He's stalled; he likes the feel of chalk held in his hands. Dust, collecting on his fingertips, underneath his nails. Despite how it makes him cough when he breathes.

A noise behind him. "Are you alright, Philip?"

Philip blinks, putting the cloth down and turning. For a moment, he has nothing to say; then: "How long have you been standing there?"

The tall woman, strands of carefully tamed curly ginger hair drifting against her temple, smiles and moves closer, stopping just on the other side of the desk. Her hands grip a binder, fingernails a matching purple to the orange of her hair and the hazel of her eyes. She doesn't pause in her easy demeanour, saying breathlessly, "I thought to catch you before you make like a cat and hide away somewhere. Do you like cats, Philip?"

"Hm? Not excessively. I certainly don't mind them. What are you doing here, Dr. Swanson?"

"I can't visit a friend without an interrogation? And please, Amabel is my name. Dr. Swanson just makes me feel old." Her smile remains, her tone keeping that warm cadence. "But if you must know, I wanted to check up on you. Feels like we haven't chatted in forever."

Philip shrugs. Amabel… in all truthfulness, Amabel is an intimidating, alluring taste of friendship that he's not sure he has, not yet. He can't say with any certainty that they're friends, but they're certainly  _ friendly _ \- and that alone is confusing to him. "We've both been busy. But if it helps at all, I've been feeling better."

He… he hasn't been. He doesn't know why he said that. Her warm, relaxed body language doesn't relieve the increasing, bewildering pressure in his chest.

"I'm glad to have helped. If we could meet up sometime in more… casual settings, I'd like to. I'm told I give brilliant hugs, and you always look like you need one."

Philip doesn't get a chance to respond, as she turns quickly and heads towards the door. But before she can exit, another person pokes his head through the open entryway. Amabel halts, and the two stare at each other in blatant confusion.

"Clarence? What are you doing here?" Philip calls from his desk, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. "We didn't have anything scheduled."

Clarence just shrugs, attention glued to Amabel. "Guess I popped in just in time to join the party! Who's this chick, monkey?"

Philip opens his mouth, a sharp admonishment ready on his tongue - but Amabel just laughs. She laughs, and says, "Never thought I'd be meeting  _ you, _ Clarence! What a surprise! But I must apologise; if this is a party, you've arrived as the last guests have begun departing."

Clarence blinks.

"That said, I do hope to have another clandestine meeting with you again, when I have more time to speak to you." She leans in, and Philip swears he sees something red blossoming at the crown of her head, there and gone again. "You're truly a fascination, Clarence. It's a shame we couldn't speak frankly, before. But regardless - I hope you'll take care with Philip. He's not as macho as he thinks he is." This she throws back over her shoulder, and Philip coughs, cheeks burning. "I best be going. Have a good time, Philip, Clarence."

With that, the enigmatic woman disappears. The shadows beyond swallow her whole, ominously hungry.

Clarence meanders up to his desk, trepidation and something else fuzzing the lines of his mouth. He seems to shake himself free of his thoughts, however, adopting a bright grin that he turns readily to Philip. "Well! That sure was… interestin'. You know her?"

"Ah, uh, yes." Philip hurriedly gathers up several stacks of various papers, and chews on his lip before answering the pointed question. "Amabel, that was Amabel Swanson. You wouldn't know her - she started working here just a short time ago, but we've worked closely together several times."

"Ooh - the monkey's got himself a girl! And she's a beaut, to boot! Philip, you devil, you!"

Philip shrugs, vaguely disgusted. "Shut up, Clarence. It's nothing, and even if it was, it's none of your business and has nothing to do with  _ you. _ "

Clarence just shakes his head, following him with a swinging gait, overflowing with smugness. He keeps following even when they've left the classroom behind, even after Philip shoots him a frustrated, tense look, even when he jerks his head as if to shoo the other away.

He really doesn't have the patience to handle Clarence's eccentricities right now. He's already muddling through a brain fog that he's becoming frustratingly more aware of, and this latest lecture has just driven the point home. Not to mention whatever reason Amabel had dropped in for - he doesn't expect to have free time anytime soon, as a new project demanding his attention has finally been given the green light to begin research. He's told Clarence, of course, and the stranger hadn't given his opinion one way or the other. He assumed that it was fine, but - clearly not. He tries not to doubt that conclusion; as unpredictable as Clarence is, he'd rather deal with a known than an unknown ordeal from the being.

After fifteen bloody minutes of Clarence dogging his footsteps, Philip loses his composure and throws a glare back at his undesired tag along. "Just  _ what _ are you doing here, Clarence? What do you  _ want? _ "

( _ there's a smile hidden there, he knows it, just as he knows that the emotion written across its face isn't what it's experiencing, isn't what is  _ real _ , and he's not frightened and perhaps he should be, just for that alone _ )

Clarence smiles; egotistical, gloating. "Ah, now you're lookin'. See anything you like?"

He wrinkles his nose. Clarence lets out a (startled?) laugh, and, wiping non-existent tears away, says, "I don't want anything right  _ now, _ monkey boy. But I must confess - you've been holdin' out on me. Your poor old friend Clarence! Left to waste away as you pamper your darlin' girls!"

"What - !" Philip grimaces. "Actually, you keep wherever you got that nonsense from to yourself."

Clarence snickers, glee dripping off the sound. "I don't want to harp on your little parade with Miss-Amabel-Swanson, but I'd like to know why you've yet to watch a movie with me. Don't you think it's a little unfair that we've been dating so long and I haven't even seen your flat?"

"We're not  _ dating _ ."

"Says someone who never dates. You know why you're all alone, Philip?"

_ Because you're selfish, blind. _

Philip hisses, shaking the strange thought away. "I'm not lonely. For fuck's sake, Clarence, get to the point."

"Oh! So uptight," Clarence jeers, but he drops the topic. Philip will never understand where Clarence gets this stuff. "If you're in such a hurry to know, use your own single cell brain to figure it out."

He sighs. They've reached the parking lot, and Philip hates the realization that he's already dropped off his papers and closed up his office, all without noticing. He blames Clarence for being so damn distracting, but he knows it's nothing to do with the eccentric man.

The day is an overcast one; if he didn't know any better, he'd think hail or snow was on the horizon, but the forecast has only rain and clouds in mind. He thumbs the keys to his car, pausing to consider the sky overhead; the grey clouds, blurry as they turn in on themselves, are thick and dreary, with shadows aflutter about the edges. Birds call; he spends a moment, his eyes darting north and south, until he finds them. A flock of dark birds, big with broad, blackout wings, and they fly across open cloud-ridden sky without a care in all of the godforsaken world.  _ Reckless, _ he thinks. For a moment, just a moment, he swears there are so many that they blot out the horizon, drowning the sun in an unnatural black pith, foaming and alien.

He blinks back a burning in his eyes, ears ringing, only to jump when Clarence's fingers snap too close to his face.

"Yoohoo? Philip? Anybody home?"

He shakes his head, huffing. Finds that he's got the keys in the car's lock, and he's leaning sideways against it, like he might fall over if he were to move too quickly. He's dizzy.

"Philip?"

Concern, he thinks he hears in its voice, and a moment of clarity finds him confused and nauseated until guilt grows thick in his mouth. He blinks again, clearing his throat. "Fine, 'm fine."

"I don't think so," the voice says, and he realizes his vision is blotted, smearing black like the birds are living inside his eyes, fled from the skies, and he's nervous. He's nervous. 

"Here."

Fingers nimbly slide around his, soft against his palm as the keys fall out of his grip and into theirs. An arm grasps from around his back, lifting him up. A click and he knows the door's open.

"Now," the voice says. "You're probably gonna be pissed when you get your shit together and… whatever the fuck this is stops, but I am not gonna drag your corpse around just for the sake of your pride. You don't have much to be proud of anyway, monkey, I don't understand where you get that."

_ I was considered one of the best of my field, _ he thinks to say, but the words don't come.  _ Do you even know how to drive? _

"Hush up. Here's what we're gonna do," and it's almost as if the voice is trying to tread carefully. He bites back his curiosity; something tells him that, even if he could speak, it wouldn't be well received. "You are gonna sit back while your ol' pal Clarence takes the wheel--"

_ You can't even drive-- _

" _ Shut _ it. I'm gonna drive, and you're gonna be happy with that, got it? And we're gonna go to your flat."

_ My - why are we going to my flat? Why not yours? Hell, why not the goddamn hospital-- _

"Jesus criminy, you can't even shut up when you're dyin'! Just get in the car, monkey."

With a shove at his shoulder, he slides into the car; like a sack of potatoes, he's pushed and tugged until he's gone over the center console and fallen into the front passenger seat.  _ Agh! Clarence! _

"What? Oh, don't be a baby. You're fine."

Philip's face twitches.

"Ok, ok, yeesh. Next time I'll be a little more careful when hauling your useless, freakishly proportioned body around."

_ I'm proportioned just fine. _ He turns his heavy head, tries to shift upward but only rolls his joints, flopping uncomfortably. Every bit of him is so heavy, pressure laying on him with an unpleasant malaise. He can open his eyes, just barely, but only enough for light to blister his brain without vision.  _ What the hell is happening? _

"Would answer that if I could, philly-billy-boy!"

_ …Don't call me that. _

"Aw, look who's the grumpy one now! Just relax, Philip, and enjoy the ride." A brief touch at his hip, as if he's been patted, but it's gone before he can register it. "Let me take the wheel. This time, you sorely need it."

He finds himself struggling with those words, his face twitching, discomforted. He can't explain why, but he feels so… weak, at that moment, weak and beginning to fear it. And although he's only dimly aware of it, his mouth opens in a grimace and his hand manages to jerk free of the weight, uselessly falling atop the center console.

A sound of surprise. "Oh, you don't need to worry about  _ that, _ monkey! Didn't even cross my mind."

He scowls.

"Alright, alright it… might've, just a bit. But may I remind you that to assume ill of a person is to present them with the expectation to commit wrong?"

Slowly, he eases his eyes open; he can't sit up, can't turn his head, but at least he can see. Even if that means he's just seeing blurs and blobs of colours instead of actual sight.  _ What do you know of that, Clarence? _

A short, humorless laugh. "Besides the obvious? You don't have to worry your little head about me, Philip. Worry about yourself."

With that, the voice falls into silence. Philip can't think of anything to say, so he doesn't.

He's pretty sure Clarence doesn't have a license, but the car seems to be keeping in the correct lanes and driving the correct speed. All he can do in the yawning quiet of the cabin is let his head sag, pressing his cheek against the frame of the window. It looks to have begun to rain, a light drizzle that spots the glass in distorted murmurs of water. His throat is dry, agonizingly so; then the feeling disappears as he manages to shuffle his body into a more comfortable position.

Time stretches that way, permeating. The rain increases; the sky and air outside turns grey and dark.

His eyes slip, and close.

( _ does the stranger look over at him, wondering why, wondering how, wondering when? he finds, in that imperturbable moment, that the stranger is not one at all, for even with the distance between them, he finds that it's grown unintentionally closer to him. _ )

A palm, on his shoulder.

He inhales sharply, his whole body shuddering - he's awake, he's awake, he swears he is this time, and his vision blurs into black and green and grey, old walls incasing him as he shudders, a weak breath on the floor, dust flooding his lungs--

"Philip," someone says. "Oi, idiot monkey man,  _ wake up. _ "

With a gasp, his eyes fly wide open; the air too cold, too bright, he lurches in his seat, the seat belt absent. The hand on his shoulder grips him, pushing him up until he's sitting on his own. Philip regains his bearings, embarrassment bitter like acid at the back of his throat. He struggles to swallow, and he can't stop blinking for the life of him. He croaks out, "What, what the fuck…?"

"That," Clarence responds from the driver seat - in  _ his  _ car. With his hands on the wheel - the engine still humming. Outside, his building looks over them, judgement leering through the dark windows. The rain - the rain is gone. "Is called a dizzy spell, my dear Philip, and it happens when you forget that lunch is a thing baboons like you need and decide instead to skip out on your poor old friend Clarence, who goes lookin' fer you outta the graciousness of his heart."

Philip's nose wrinkles. "If you have a heart, it's a shriveled up ugly excuse for one. And even if that's true, you could've said something  _ before _ I passed out."

"Passed out? Far as I saw, buddy, you just couldn't walk or think straight. And seems you were busy gettin' on with Miss Swanson, not that I know anythin' bout that."

Philip hisses, struggling not to snarl. He instead throws the car door open, getting out with a nauseatingly fast movement. He has to clutch onto the top of the car, swallowing thickly as the world spins loops around his head. Breakfast tastes foul at the back of his throat.

"Woah, woah, woah, no need for any of that, c'mon, Philip," whines Clarence from the other side of the car. "Take a joke! And hell, some gratitude wouldn't be remiss, now would it? I just saved your dumbass from takin' a nappy-nap outside your school for nitwits and smartasses!"

"Fine." Philip finally gets away from the car, Clarence doggedly following behind. Up the stairs, just one flight - yes, then to the left, there's that old red door with the numbers  _ 356  _ plastered on the front, gaudily gold in the evening low light. He wrestles numb fingers through his jean pockets, only turning to see Clarence holding the keys aloft close to his cheek when the other sighs. "Fine, thank you for taking my car keys and driving my car. I really do appreciate your excellent care. Now  _ piss off _ ."

"Nope, not yet billy-boy. I've been wantin' a movie, and I'm gonna get a movie. I'm owed my dues, Philip, now pay up."

"A movie?" Philip scoffs. "You don't strike me as the movie type."

As Philip opens the door, his undesired companion slips in quickly before he can shut it in his face. Not that he'd actually do that, not really; at most he'd pinch Clarence's foot. Clarence sees his frustration and just laughs, a throaty, loud sound in the emptiness of the flat. "What type do I  _ strike _ Mr. Physics-Professor as? A jock? As if I care about empty numbskulls bashin' what little sense they have right outta their measly little bodies! Well, unless there's some violence in the mix, that always gets the juices flowin'."

Philip grimaces, mouth souring.

"Really! What are you thinkin' of in that head o' yours, Philip?"

As Philip kicks off his shoes and drags off his socks - to the disgust of Clarence - he sighs and says, "I don't know. Perhaps you prefer to spend all your free time harassing me in rundown diners and following me around when I'm working. Don't you have anything better to do, really?"

"Of course not," he grins. "But - when you're not around - there's movies, y'see?"

Philip sighs, accepting that. He stands awkwardly in the hallway before the living room, Clarence content to wait beside him. His usual routine is just to throw something into the microwave, have dinner and a shower, and drop into bed. He's no workaholic, unlike what Clarence seems to think - he refuses to work outside hours unless it proves dire or urgent. Tonight, he doesn't have anything like that at hand. Tonight, he just wanted to hurry to bed and hope for a dreamless sleep.

"Ya got any snacks?"

Philip jumps, but doesn't acknowledge the other. But he remembers a packet of old cheddar popcorn, maybe some drinks…

Unintentionally, he finds himself sat next to Clarence, a bowl of popcorn between them and whiskey at hand. They aren't too close, a good distance between them as they sit on opposite ends of the couch - but it's close enough that his pulse is loud in his ears, sweat making his hands clammy. He tries to believe that his anxiety isn't obvious, but all he can think is  _ he can smell you, he can  _ see _ you, all your disgusting human functions, how your stomach churns and your heart throbs and your hands shake, your sweat dampening your greasy hair-- _

"Shh, stop that," says the shape beside him, closer now. "Stop that. The movie's startin'."

He swallows, white noise peaking like tinnitus and drowning out his thoughts. He still feels sluggish from the dizzy spell, but with a hand jostling his shoulder, directing his attention to the old television in his living room - he refocuses.

Whatever film Clarence put on, it's an old one; black and white and grainy, with aged voices speaking in an aged American accent. An American movie? Perhaps he should've guessed, but…

_ "Oh, Clarence - hasn't got his wings yet, has he?" _

Philip blinks, turning to look at the Clarence beside him. The focus in those murky blots for eyes - unnerves him. Clarence doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge his namesake.

_ "We've passed him up right along," _ the second character says.  _ "Because, y'know, sir, he's got the IQ of a rabbit." _

He can't help it - he chokes on a laugh, a ridiculous sound explosively muffling the film's dialogue. Clarence just smacks him on the shoulder.

He finds it a little easier, after that, focusing on the tale of George Bailey. Even if he finds himself losing interest, even when his eyelids grow heavy.

( _ later, the windows leaking pitch of unnatural night light, with his eyes closed and his head limp - as the television hums its foreign static, long since cut off from the story, unseen and thusly unknown. later, as a hand cups his shoulder and draws him close, closer. later, with speculative focus watching him as he doesn't sleep and doesn't dream. _

_ later, he'll wonder why. _ )


	8. is it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> is it blind?  
>  is it blind?  
> is it blind?  
> is it blind?_
> 
> _is it blindness?_  
>  is it blindness?  
> is it blindness? 
> 
> _feels good..._
> 
> _ [Cabaret Nocturne - Blind Trust](https://youtu.be/ODwZzMLv7zU) _

The pen bleeds blue ink, staining the paper in an unorganized blotch of colour. He stares down at his notes, chewing his lip.

"It can't be that complex, can it?" Amabel. She's here - yes, of course she is. He shakes his head - in response or to try to put his senses back on track, he's not sure. "It's just to stabilise this part of the process, don't worry about the particulars. If there's issues further down the line, we'll deal with them."

Philip sucks in a tight breath through his teeth. "That's not the  _ point _ . We need this to keep steady while the system runs, and if even one thing falters we'll need to go all the way back through the entire damn thing, trying to determine what the root cause for the failure was. It'd be a waste of time!"

"Calm down," she says, stoic and stern. "I didn't say that. I meant that this has a lot of room for error. You don't have to sink this much time into it, Philip. It's a waste."

Philip shakes his head again - this time definitely in response. He doesn't bother throwing back some rebuttal -  _ i prefer to "waste" my time perfecting it rather than doing a full system analysis after a complete failure  _ \- but he swallows back the words before they can well like poison out from an open wound. Instead he scribbles another fragmented equation, another variable or two, or three or five. Fidgets with his pen as Amabel sighs, rubbing his cheek, only then realizing the blue bloodying his fingers, possibly smeared across his face now.

"Knock-knock?"

He sighs, not looking up. "Yes, Clarence?"

"Aw, that's not how you play, monkey," comes the answer, a grinning voice that comes closer. "Oh, hello sweetheart. Philip here borin' you at all?"

"That's  _ Amabel _ to you _ ,  _ Clarence," Philip shoves himself abruptly up, turning to meet Amabel's amused face. "If you'd excuse us."

She nods. "Oh, I don't mind. Honestly, might be better for you to take a break…"

He hurries out, dragging Clarence by the other's elbow despite his protests. The hallway outside is a bright contrast to the cramped study room, and he has to take a moment squeezing his eyes reflexively shut to adjust.

A finger pokes him in the cheek, slow and prodding. "I'll try again, monkey. Knock-knock."

"Who's there."

"Idiot."

A heavy, heavy sigh. "Idiot. Who."

"Idiot, who goes to Greenland without supplies?"

Philip finally pries his aching eyes open, staring dead eyed at the grinning idiot next to him. "That makes no sense. It's not even funny."

"Not to you, it isn't!" Clarence cackles. "You know why I'm here?"

With the sudden turn in tone, Philip takes a better grip of his bag ( _ when did he grab it? _ ) and begins making his way toward the parking lot. He can guess Clarence's reason, and it's not like Amabel isn't used to the strange man dropping in unexpectedly and dragging him off for some random excuse.

"Oh c'mon, monkey! At least try to guess!"

"I don't need to."

"C'mon, just a little one! Just one!"

"Alright, alright," Philip says. The sky opens above, an endless chasm of grey. They're in the parking lot, already. "I missed lunch with you? I promised another movie? We were supposed to go to the park again? Jesus Christ, it's like you don't have a life."

"I don't," the strange man responds, but continues before Philip can react. "And hey, you lost spectacularly! A new record, three guesses and none correct!"

"Get on with it." Into the car he goes - this time properly, thank God. Clarence slips round the front, tucking his bony limbs in like it's a perfect fit. It shouldn't be.

"You were close, I'll give ya that. Now how's about you start drivin', yeah? And we'll talk."

The key into the ignition, the sound grounding him as the engine starts. "Talk?"

"Yeah, sure. What about, I haven't the foggiest. Just drive."

Like he's on automatic, the car peels gently out of the parking lot, leaving campus grounds behind. The air feels heavy, making his breath empty in his chest, yet he doesn't feel even the faintest lick of alarm.

The roads are abandoned. It's like they've left the city already - strange, he had thought the University to be fairly deep within its bowels of towers and tightly wound streets. He supposes not, now; in fact, he supposes they were closer to the coast than he had previously thought, for the edge of a steep drop off into black water begins to run parallel to them.

"You there, Philip?"

"Hum? Oh," Philip says from far away. His eyes are on the grey road, the grey sky, the black sea. "Yes. Yes, yes, I still am."

"Good. I…"

Pause. Taste of teeth; sound of tongue. Wet; dry. He drinks in the feeling, even as his eyes burn with green light.

He's tired of this happening. He doesn't know, he doesn't know - his hands turn white around the steering wheel.

"You're frustrated - good. To tell the truth, I'm past frustration. Do you know how tough it is to wrangle a brain as stubborn as yours into doin' what needs to be done? You fight every single second of it, and you're not even aware of it! Tell me, how does one as stupid as you do it?"

His eyelids are dragged by weights. Wet curls around his cheeks - are they underwater?

"No, don't worry, Philip. Your…  _ dearest _ friend Clarence is here to help."

A hook, pulling, yanking. He gulps down air, eyelids fluttering open and shut. The car keeps driving. The black sea is gone.

"There we are. Still not up for talkin' though, are ya?"

Pause.

"Guess not. Too bad - You can't be coherent to take these little chats with me, can't even be bothered to be  _ real _ when ye are." 

Sad. Clarence sounds sad.

"I am not! Perhaps annoyed at your complete lack of politeness, but who wouldn't be? Nah, I'm not  _ sad. _ If you were in your proper mind, you wouldn't even think that. Ridiculous."

Seems sad to me.

"No. Shut it."

...did you like the movie?

"What - which one?"

You know.

"Ha! Rude, is what you are. You can't just assume people know what you're feeling and talking about at all times, Philip, that's how you get into messes like this. But yes, I did like what little I saw. What, you thought I was just joshin' ya? No, it genuinely is a tragedy to not finish a movie. Doesn't matter what it is, you should always finish what you start."

Silence. He opens his eyes - he closed them? - and the car is still driving, far outside of the city. He clears his aching throat. "The ocean?"

A jerking movement; Clarence had been staring out the window, his hair momentarily long and dark before blossoming blonde and shortening. "Yes! No points though, since it's been hours since I asked."

"Sure."

Clarence turns in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. The sky flies by in a blur of grey and blue outside his window. "Alright, but you've yet to say - what  _ is _ goin' on with that chick Swanson?"

"What are you, jealous? You've no right, Clarence," Philip says. "Keep your bullshit to yourself."

"Ooh! Ouch. Couldn't have struck deeper, couldja? And I rather  _ do _ think I have the right to ask. I'm just askin'."

Philip hisses. "You've no right, no right at all. The suffering you've caused me--"

"If you think back, Philip, you'd realise that I didn't do anything you weren't already doin' to yerself, with the exception of one  _ little _ itty bitty thing. Oh sure, I did fuck round with your poor, weak, unevolved eyeballs, just a bit, but I think we both know that's the least I could have, right?"

" _ No. _ "

"Why not?"

Philip's hands tap a fast staccato against the wheel. His face feels numb. "Just because you were suffering doesn't mean you automatically get to make others around you suffer. It wasn't the  _ least  _ you could have - it was a violation."

A scoff. "So what? Not like any of it lasted long. And hey, I'm apologizin', so what's the big deal?"

That - that stops him.

Clouds purple the sky. The car slows, pulling close to the edge of a slope, where the rocks slide down into the sand, where the earth meets the sea. He doesn't climb out, instead slumping and pressing a clammy hand to his eyes and temple.

Seems like the red flashes that spring in the darkness of his eyelids feel safer than trying to respond to the creature beside him, the person watching just inches away.

"Got ya stumped?" A crinkle, clothes that rustle into movement. A hand grips his shoulder - a painful, familiar-unfamiliar touch. "By an apology? Ha! Sorry, Philip. I'm  _ sorry. _ "

That last word is guttural, solemn compared to the jest of the rest. Philip lifts his head, and despite expecting it, it still unnerves him deeply to see the half lidded gaze meeting his own. Even for as fragmented and unintelligible as the being's features are, there's still a… sensation, that arises from looking at him.

Fear, smelling of sickness. Remorse. Frustration - oh, certainly, and it is a cruel flavour in his mouth. But there should be sarcasm - mockery. Not just this honest cruelty, this cruel honesty. He doesn't know how to take it.

"You," he says, finally, with a dry throat ( _ when was the last time you had water? _ ). "You don't  _ get _ it. No amount of apologies means  _ anything _ for what you've done."

He climbs out of the car. Clarence follows, his mouth firmly shut - and his gleaming eyes watching. The salty air clears his head somewhat, and his eyes slip closed; he really doesn’t know how to respond - not just to what Clarence has said, but what  _ he’s _ just said, what he’s just experienced. It doesn’t seem right. None of it does. And he can’t find it within himself to react. He’s fed up with this, he’s fed up with all of it, even as his mind scrambles to define just what  _ this _ is. Is it his own swirling, vague thoughts? Is it the strange aches in his body, how he’s certain he’s unwell but he can’t understand, can’t  _ do _ anything to change it - is it Clarence itself, present in a way so few are to him nowadays, how he can’t make sense of his  _ face _ , let alone his confusing words.

And Philip,  _ he _ is confused. He is out of focus, unable to handle anything set in front of him, and he knows with certainty that this is not at all like him.

Doesn’t he charge ahead? Doesn’t he push through? He’s never hesitated, once he’s put his mind to something. He got through his childhood years of immaturity, he got through his school days, and before all of  _ this _ , whatever  _ this _ is, began, he had been handling his professional career just fine. As dead as his social life was, he had never been phased by it. As monotone and repetitive his days had been, he had no drive to change them. This upset bewilders him - yet he…

He opens his eyes, gazing out to the grey sea; foam licks at his sneakers, soaking through and dampening his socks. He’s gone further out than he had thought; walking with his eyes shut.

He feels like he’s only just started to live, just as he feels like he’s falling apart. He’s sick of  _ this, _ sick of the darkness that obscures whatever has caused it - yet at the same time, he’s caught in its folds, fully entranced by it.

Clarence seems like the only one to be tied to it; he doesn’t know why, and he realizes with a start that he… rather doesn’t care. His apology, in that sense, is meaningless; as his own mouth had spoken, so it is true here; there are no apologies to heal the damage done.

He mulls over this. He considers. And finally, without too much thought, he says, “Forgiveness isn’t what you want.”

A fast intake of breath, almost surprise - but he doesn’t ask. As if he already knows.


	9. five lives too late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I tried to understand his logic  
>  But there's just no pattern there  
> No sympathetic voices anywhere...  
> There's blood in my hair_
> 
> _Can't you hear me crying out for guidance?  
>  (Yes, we hear but we don't care!)  
> No sympathetic victims anywhere  
> There's blood in my hair_
> 
> _My head is  
>  A most obliging harbor  
> For this illusion  
> Will these irish eyes be stung by  
> Tears of confusion  
> Will you meet the common end  
> To your odd shaped mission  
> No, it isn’t true  
> I don’t believe in that  
> Kind of garbage  
> Yet still I pray for you_
> 
> _Someone's terrorized my psyche to get even  
>  Lately you're the only human I believe in  
> Cherub corpses in the vapor  
> Martyrs wrapped in butcher paper_
> 
> _I saw you laughing, but tomorrow you’ll say you weren't there  
>  You looked at me in disgust...  
> The dirt washes, I don't care  
> There’s blood in my hair_
> 
> _Blood in my hair..._  
> ...Fuck.
> 
> _ [of Montreal - We Will Commit Wolf Murder](https://youtu.be/XRjf1B5sDYw) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter may contain sensitive or distressing content. The following apply:
> 
> description of a panic/anxiety attack, description of corpses, description of extreme bloody nose, hallucinations, memory issues, implications of gas lighting/and or memory manipulation (well meant, but still implied), paranoia, general mental illness, implied dissociation
> 
> In general, I'm putting this warning here because although I do not consider it all that bad, it still is a fairly graphic scene. Please take care. Skip to the end for a chapter summary.

"Congratulations, LaFresque! Finally got that master's, and, what, that paper published? Good work!"

Philip awkwardly smiles, nodding his head and thanking the stranger. All around him is a mass of bodies he doesn't recognize - coworkers, colleagues who jumped at the opportunity to formally drink and gossip in the beautiful dining hall of the University. He hadn't expected such a crowd when he got the invitation, but perhaps he should've.

"Oh,  _ you're _ Philip LaFresque? I read your dissertation - I know it's quite old by now, but it's still a marvelous read--"

More people. More talking - he doesn't recall what he says, even as he says it. "Yes, yes, thank you, I--"

He lifts his head, and, through some miracle of luck, catches Amabel Swanson's eye from across the room. He places his still full champagne glass onto a passing server's tray, murmuring a farewell as he hastily pushes his way through the crowd toward Dr. Swanson.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets breathlessly. "Was losing hope I'd be seeing anybody familiar in this place."

She smiles. "It was like you saw a hundred euro, the way you made your way over here. What could make you so excited to see me?"

Flirting couldn't hurt, could it? "You're definitely worth a hundred euro - hell, more than that, Amabel. The sight of you alone is enough to get me excited."

"Oh, stop that," she says, but her blush is lovely. "I'm… in a relationship. I know you don't mean anything by it, and your flirting could take some work - but…"

"Alright, understood. Who's the lucky bastard you've taken up with?" They're thankfully next to a wall; he leans against it, grateful to take some weight off his feet. "Never thought you'd have enough time for something like that."

"No, not really. It's… it's complicated." She stirs her drink, a thin red straw that clicks against the ice. He wonders where she got it in the sea of champagne and wine glasses being offered.

"Do you mind if I ask?"

She shrugs; she doesn't seem necessarily stressed about her  _ complicated _ relationship, but a listening ear never hurts. Philip may not know her as well as she thinks he does, but he'd like to offer what companionship he can to her.

They watch the crowd for a bit. Perhaps too long, however, because… He begins to see, see people he… he swears he recognizes them…

"It's just that - I didn't know him, not  _ before _ . He's different, of course, just like I am, but I feel as though I can't know him. It's an impossibility, a long dead possibility. I think he feels the same way, but I…"

Philip turns to her, words in his mouth -

But her face - her face is gone, it's  _ gone. _ In its place is a mess of blood, rivulets run rich with iron and stinking of sulfur. He's frozen, watching as her ruin of a face turns to him, as blood bubbles from the soft, exposed hole in her broken skull. Something oozes out from the corner of her mouth, pink and stringy.

The light in the room is overbright, bleaching her skin white.

"Philip?"

"I--" He chokes. "I'll just be a moment."

He - he just needs a moment. He blinks burning eyes, the afterimage coiling inside his brain, a living weight just behind his eyes. He just needs a moment.

He darts away before she can respond, but as he struggles through the crowd ( _ the bathroom, just a breather, just need a breather, the bathroom, the bathroom _ ) and his eyes spin circles and sweat dampens his hair, he looks and he  _ sees _ , he sees and  _ how, _ how did he not see them before?!?

( _ you're dreaming philip, you're dreaming again, another nightmare, just another nightmare _ )

Corpses - corpses the lot of them, and his stomach rebels. The world dances in streaks; he's hyperventilating, he thinks. Someone leans in, electrical burns all across their hands and face, the lips melted away to expose grotesque, rotten teeth. And they open that mouth and he shouts, a weak cough of a sound that gurgles painfully in the pit of his belly. A name, a name - he knows it, but the word refuses itself to him.

He wrestles out of their grip, losing his balance and falling against someone else. As he twists around, an arm comes around his back and grasps him.

Grey skin - hollow, blank eyes, and he jerks back, realising another had been the one to grab him. A grey cadaver, strips of flesh flayed from its skeletal chest swinging with its puppet-like movement. His teeth imprison his voice; all he can do is kick his feet out, the creature behind him gripping him so tight he can feel the blood bleed beneath his skin.

"It's alright, it's alright," whispers the stranger trapping him. Hot breath, in his ear, stinking of rot and decomposing meat. "Calm down, Philip. We just wanted to say one last goodbye."

He coughs, and  _ Eminess _ lets him out of his grip, lets him scramble back. A face, although perhaps only half of one - marred by something bloody, pulpously throbbing as it eats away at his face, like a disease.  _ Eminess, Richard Eminess _ \- he touches Philip's cheek, eyes wet as one begins to sluggishly bleed from the socket.

"Don't be afraid, Philip," the dead man rasps. His lips unfurl from his mouth, drying and cracking off from the flesh. His jagged, broken teeth are so close - hot, hot breath too close, too close. "We're just hungry, you see."

He pulls himself away. He pulls himself away, heart pounding in his ears so loudly his teeth shake and grow numb in his gums. They let him go, a swarm of bloody and decaying bodies that he  _ recognizes. _

( _ behind you, he lingers with outstretched palms; how worn his hands are, for the teeth of the saw to grind away at his living flesh. _ )

The bathroom has never been so blessedly empty, so blessedly welcoming. He pants, heaving even as he forces himself to stay by the door, to hold it shut from the creatures beyond this temporary sanctuary. He can't keep himself standing - he slips, just one foot and then the other, and tumbles into a pathetic mess on the floor. He can't stop shaking.

As he tries to regain himself, opening and shutting his eyes as the images -  _ amabeleminesshowardoswaldcarpenterroberts  _ \- 

( _ a man with an open, drooling cavern of a mouth, eyes bulbous and white, the flies sowing eggs into the pits of his greasy skin  _ ;  _ a man with nothing, and he stands in the middle of the room with nothing, empty man with empty hands _ ;  _ a shadow on the floor, nothing more and nothing less _ )

\- images he hasn't, can't, process beyond the roar of  _ Amabel _ and  _ Eminess. _ Corpses, the lot of them, corpses,  _ corpses - _

He coughs again, his limbs cold, so very cold. Blinks. A sob withers in his chest, but he can't stop sniffling, his eyes coals of salty water that coat his cheeks. His cheek, his arms, still burn from their abhorrent touch. His clothes are ruined; formal as they are, his drying sweat stiffens and stains them. God, he feels  _ disgusting. _

( _ he was seeing things, just seeing things, there's something inside his head and it's terrorizing him for its own petty  _ fucking _ games-- _ )

He sniffles again, but there's a sharp sting of pain and his ears ring. With something like a whimper, he raises a trembling hand to his upper lip.

He's not surprised to see blood dirtying his fingertips when he pulls them away. He licks his lips; yes, the thick, coagulated flavour of iron floods his mouth. Nausea dizzies him.

What he's not expecting is for the ringing in his head to scream into a fever pitch at the sight, and suddenly - there's - there's blood on the floor, his chin is wet --

He stands, tipping, catching himself on the doorknob. All down the front of his clothes is red - a spray, violently alien. The lights dim and flicker, plunging him into a flashing nightmare of darkness and lowlight as more blood pours out from his nose.

( _ pain, pain in his skull, alone, he's alone and there's only-- _ )

It won't stop - it won't  _ stop _ \- he has to cough again, a gagging reflex that forces back vomit but more blood expunges, and he thinks hysterically  _ a faucet, i've got a faucet of blood where my nose should be! _

He can hardly see the room for the ocean of blood that begins pooling on the tile. Green and grey; vertigo strikes him heavily, and he fights to push himself up again from where he's fallen ( _ he's fallen? _ ), the threat of drowning in the brilliantly red flood surreally  _ real. _

His hands, his hands - he cries, blood mixing with the tears. An awful, hacking, stuttering sound. His hands, they're filthy. The blood, it dirties them. He can't see anymore for the red that blinds him, so much of it that just keeps coming and  _ coming _ , and now he is sitting in a five inch deep puddle of it, and more, more keeps coming.

He's disconnected from himself. He can't think.

( _ something's terrorizing me, something's terrorizing me, but it's-- _ )

It just doesn't stop. His filthy, stained hands, shaking; his mouth, making wet, weak cries; and all he can feel is the sensation of pain, numb and spastic, weighing his head down. Wet soaking his face.

A knock. Vibrates the wood he's caught against. He freezes.

Murmuring from beyond. "...ilip?"

He shivers violently, almost a full bodied shudder. Another knock.

"...Philip?"

Exhale. His eyes slip closed; in fear, in exhaustion, he doesn't know. His eyes slip closed.

"Philip? You in there? You left in such a hurry…"

( _ amabel, amabel, but wasn't there someone else? this, this never happened this way _ )

The blood is gone.

The blood is  _ gone. _

He can't move until he can and then he's scrambling, heart racing in his throat. He frantically touches his clean clothes ( _ the sweat - the sweat is gone-- _ ), vigorously rubbing his hands against his nose, his lips, scratching his cheeks. Dissociated.

He tastes his teeth, alien as they are in his mouth. Ignores the increasingly loud knocks against the door, stumbling to the sink - to the mirror perched above it.

( _ old, aging - where are you? _ )

His face, eyes bloodshot, needing a shave but he'd been too lazy that morning - his face greets him. 

( _ just him. just you. _ )

He tries a smile but nearly falls again when the glimmer of his gums looks like blood, when his nostrils flare and he thinks  _ blood, blood, there's so much, so much-- _

More knocking. "Good day? Good day, can you hear me?"

His head, uncommanded, makes an abrupt, sudden movement. As if shaking. He doesn't know. He sniffles, pushes a cough down. His eyes are like twin droplets of watery yolk.

"Philip? Can you hear me?"

( _ i know you - i know you-! _ )

He presses his face into his palms. Heart throbs like a dying creature, held indelicately in his stained hands.

"Well, I hope that your ears are working better than your tongue, so that you might use them to listen to my words."

( _ do i - do i know you-? _ )

Philip jolts away from the sink, his blood roaring. He stares at the door with coal eyes, burning. He  _ knows _ that voice.

"I know you, Philip, but it appears that you do not know me! You may call me  _ Red! _ It is not my name you see, but I am sure you will agree that it is a name rather similar to a cardigan, fetching when worn correctly. And I must declare - both you and I wear our names famously well."

_...Red?  _

He draws closer to the door, gulping. He's calm, so very calm - he thinks. He's not bleeding. Was he ever?

"If you feel you must remain within your own pocket, a rat afraid of its own shadow - do not lose heart, for your friend Red shall remain here with you! Never fear, for daring Red is here! Or, perhaps you should fear - but alas, that is not the question here! No, my friend, the question remains so: will heroic Philip come out from behind his fear? Red will take care of all his woes if he should not, but I admit 'twould be a very sad day indeed if his friend should choose not to."

Philip can't help the smile that weakly, impulsively forms. He's fond, despite barely knowing the fellow. If… if he knows the man at all, and he… He's suddenly not so sure.

But nevertheless, his hand reaches out and grasps the doorknob lightly. If he were to close his eyes, would he be able to feel the stranger standing, unseen, behind the door?

"Red would be so sad if his friend decides to hide away! He has so much to thank you for."

The door creaks as he eases it open; a soft, excited inhale darts back from it, and he steps out into the hallway with curiosity and anticipation keeping him steady.

Beyond, there stands a man. He shifts on his feet in excitement; his hands dance at his hips before finding themselves, holding tight together as if they'd become lost if they were ever to part.

He can't see who it is. He can't. He can't see who it  _ is - _ he shakes his head. Tries to smile through the confused impressions inside his head -  _ tall, almost skeletally thin, grimy skin and crimson hair _ \- and offers a handshake. "Hello, Red."

The man doesn't accept his hand, simply glancing at it with inquisitive eyes before dismissing it. But still, he grins - or, well, Philip thinks he grins. His face is too much of a smear of muddy paint to decipher clearly. "Hullo, Philip! Amabel, she sent me, but if Red had known such a man of prowess would be here, well - I would have come much sooner!"

"Amabel sent you?" He joins Red in the hallway, and, unanimously, they head back towards the dining hall. The images of those grotesque figures… seem so surreal and alien, now, in Red's strange company. They couldn't have been real.

He hadn't been bleeding.

"Yes, the lovely lady did," Red chirps eagerly. His hands make an aborted movement, a half dance before entwining again. "She's quite, yes, quite the lovely lady! You did bring vile me a proper gift, as I knew you would. Even if this is not the tea party I expected, Red always appreciates a banquet, and a final supper is like taking the moon along with the stars on a voyage meant for none. Exquisite, if such beauty is beheld by more than its resulting violence."

"Oh."

"I see you are confused, beloved friend! There is no need to be. Ah, here we are; two mice entering the maw of the housecat, and we are such wondrous morsels, don't you agree?"

They enter the hall, the ceiling yawning open around them as a dozen faces ignore their entrance. He barely has time to inhale sharply before Red squeezes his arm almost bruisingly so, dragging him at full speed through throngs of familiar strangers.

He doesn't see Amabel until Red shouts, and when he does she rushes over, expression unreadable. "Philip! Tomas! Thank  _ God, _ where on Earth were you?"

Red makes a confused sound. "Lady Swan, you sent--"

She silences him with darting eyes, before she takes Philip by the wrist and delicately leads him to a hidden corner, where chairs greet the three to Philip's relief.

"I," says Philip. "I just went to take a breather. Is this your…"

Amabel doesn't seem pleased at his evasion, but accepts it anyway. She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, smiling slightly at Red ( _ who, alarmingly, blushes a vibrant kaleidoscope of colours _ ). "Yes. Philip, this is Tomas, although he likes  _ Red, _ too. We're--"

"We have become embraced, intertwined, cursed lovers, fated to never meet!" Red says brightly, left hand snatching out to grasp Amabel's while his right waves in the air extraordinarily quick. His left jumps up and down, and Amabel laughs as her hand joins his in the motion. "Humble Red must thank you, Philip! Humble, humble Red grovels before you; you have repaid my love with love, the most valuable desire! Besides rat, crunchy deliciousness that it is - but ah, no man is perfect in his search for gifts, and so Red shall forgive you."

"This is…" Philip says ( _ affection - for his two friends, his dearest friends _ ) and smiles. "This is surprising, but no less wonderful."

"Yes! Exactly what I had thought, for after such fire and agony so powerful that I must confess I wished for a painful end for you - Red can no longer ache for such a thing. My voice, alone within this din of sound, has found a utopia as the Lady Swan's consort. No better end for me, except to share a toast with the Reaperman hungry for my lost soul."

"I think I just enjoy him talking," Amabel - the "Lady Swan" - imparts. "It gets so quiet here; at least with Tomas, he can spin as many eloquent things as he wishes and never grow tired."

Red  _ beams. _ "You are excellent company, my Lady, for your bright eye is a never ceasing watcher, catching all the tadpoles that giggle about your long, lovely claws. The fragrance of your misery and your lost control entices me, drawing forth a worm vermin that slobbers at the tail ends of your dressings. You are a creature of frustration, but you so love the mask of a creature less than you."

_ He's definitely… different, like she said. _

The rest of the evening is, admittedly, wasted; he and Amabel drink to the sounds of Red spinning beautiful spider webs, shining silver and white in cavelight fever.

He doesn't bleed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philip is at a fancy party thrown by the University, something to celebrate accomplishments as well as to network among different academic circles. He sees Amabel, and they flirt a bit before Amabel tells him about a new relationship she's begun. But as she speaks, Philip begins to notice something off with the crowd. When he turns back to Amabel, he has a vivid and disturbing hallucination of her with an extreme head injury. Trying to control himself, he excuses himself and attempts to leave the hall as quickly as possible. But as he flees, the crowd begins to turn on him (with some cameos). One of them grabs him, revealing himself to be a very creepy Eminess. He says a bunch of nonsense (no, really, it's just mean nonsense. what a bully), and lets Philip go.
> 
> Philip gets to an abandoned bathroom, and the panic/anxiety attack continues to escalate, as do the hallucinations (specifically: an extremely bad nose bleed). He also has a very long, hard cry.
> 
> He gets interrupted by who he thinks at first is Amabel, but turns out to be Red. Red coaxes him out - while also confusing him because he feels like he knows Red but also like he doesn't - and they go back to the hall. There, they regroup with Amabel, who implies that she did not send Red to find Philip despite what Red said, and with Philip giving cues to ignore what happened, they move on to other topics (one such topic being Red and Amabel's newfound relationship). The chapter ends with a fade out.


	10. your head is caving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Oscillate yourself tonight  
>  When you're in your bed  
> Simulate the dopamine  
> Passing through your head  
> When you get back on a Saturday night  
> And the roof is caving in_
> 
> _Do you look like me? Do you feel like me?  
>  Do you turn into your effigy?  
> Do you dance like this forever?_
> 
> _See yourself in the cupid's lips  
>  Chipped in your head  
> Do you indicate the satellites  
> Passing by the edge?  
> When you get back on a Saturday night  
> And your head is caving in_
> 
> _Do you look like me? Do you feel like me?  
>  Do you turn into your effigy?  
> Do you dance like this forever?  
> Do you dance like this forever?_
> 
> _Do you look like me?  
>  Do you learn like me?  
> Do you look like me?  
> Do you burn like me?_
> 
> _Do you turn into your effigy?_
> 
> _Do you dance like this forever?  
>  Do you dance like this forever?_
> 
> _Do you dance?  
>  Do you dance?  
> Do you dance?  
> Do you dance?_
> 
> _ [Gorillaz - Tranz](https://youtu.be/E2Q52cVx7Bo) _

( _ Dreaming _ : _ to experience dreams in slumber; Dreams _ :  _ a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep. _

_ To say that Philip dreams in his sleep would be a lie. _ )

* * *

_ "Philip? Philip, are you there?" _

_ A figure emerges from the fog, limbs distorted into fragments of memories of such bodily sensations. Its maw of teeth creaks open, a cry, a plea easing out like liquid from its jaws. "Philip, Philip! You've--!" Nothing more than a spasm of meaningless noise. _

_ Is Philip here? He's not sure. _

_ "Philip!" _

_ Another, coiling out from beside the monster. This one has eyes that blind; nothing else it holds, empty as it is. "Philip! Philip!" _

_ A moaning ricochets up; more, oozing from the grey void Philip doesn't exist within. Not anymore; never. _

_ "Philip!" _

_ A being with no mouth sobs noiselessly, body dropping wetly as it picks itself up with broken limbs and falls, over and over again. Another beside it, smoke melting into the air from its blackened, charred body as it tries to help its companion, to no avail. _

Why do you know my name? what could I have ever done to you? 

_ 「 _ Oh, Philip... _ 」 _

_ A voice, foreign to the rest. The place he has never been held within begins to fade away; slowly at first, in pulsating, weak heaves of its great, voluminous body, and then quicker, quicker, death throes that scream mutely in deaf ears. _

Why do you haunt me like this? 

_ 「 _ Philip? Oh, philly-billy...? _ 」 _

_ The creatures reach with disappearing hands. Tears spring in his nothing-eyes; do they despair so thickly that their sickness reaches him? Far away, as he is? _

_ 「 _ Where did that moron go… oh, there he is! _ 」 _

_ The nothing world vanishes _ .

* * *

_ Philip does not dream. _

* * *

He wakes in the dark, a hand gripping his shoulder. Impulsively, he reaches -  _ just like they did, a fierce mockery of pain _ \- he reaches, touches with shaking, cold-hot fingers. A face, beneath his palms; it leans, and his trembling body is folded within its arms. Loosely, loosely, it holds him as his body seizes and he wordlessly grips its skull within his clammy hands.

The dark presses down like an animal; heavy, breathing, a living darkness that grows hotter and hotter even as his blood freezes. He squeezes his eyes shut, unintentionally pulling it closer to him.

He waits for dawn.


	11. stay up late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Anyway why're you so complicated for me, twilight  
>  Waiting on the planet to turn to me, dark side  
> Loving you's a felony now that I'm a renegade, riding  
> Trying to find tomorrow ain't easy 'til you dive in_
> 
> _Why you rolling waves over me now, that's all I needed, dreaming  
>  Waiting on my lady to come find me, finally be forgiven  
> I'll be your reckoning, god I'd honestly never do that  
> Why're you looking so beautiful to me now when you're so sad?_
> 
> _I will always think about you  
>  That's why I'm calling you back on my way through_
> 
> _I wanna stay with you for a long time; I wanna be stolen  
>  I wanna stare up late in your eyes when I'm leaving with your love_
> 
> _I will always think about you  
>  That's why I'm calling you back, 'cause I got to run soon_
> 
> _ [Gorillaz - Souk Eye](https://youtu.be/ag2LVnpoRpU) _

Clarence is still there in the morning.

"Seriously, you'd think you'd have your shit together by now. C'mon, monkey, you've finally got that tenured position you've  _ always  _ wanted, a fat check every month, and chucks - you've got me, too!"

Philip just nods, still blinking past the strange blur in his eyes. Dumb and blind - still chasing the fragments of - was it a dream? What was it? Something, something had been -- he could just feel it, tangling at his fingertips--

"To reiterate, my monkey," says Clarence brightly. He barely notices ( _ feels _ ) Clarence swinging himself around Philip's chair, leaning in close. "You've got  _ me. _ So."

"So?" he drawls in return. His throat is strangely dry; a lurching feeling, sick and unpleasant, twitches in his gut.

" _ So,  _ open up - tell Uncle Clarence what's got you so  **_grumpy_ ** !" He nearly growls the last word, bumping his forehead against Philip's crown.

( _ seems like giving spare keys was enough to encourage this. _ )

( _ is that a bad thing? _ )

He pushes Clarence away again, the chuckle curling out unwillingly from behind his teeth. " _ Never _ call yourself that again. It's gross."

"And second?" Clarence's nose scrunches, and he's smacked, it feels like, with a dozen other memories of the exact same scene, over and over. Deja vu - but this, this hasn't--?

Philip physically shakes his head, pain beginning to pound in his left eye. "And secondly, it's  _ nothing. _ "

Clarence frowns. "Oh, so you  _ weren't _ screaming like a brat with a bloody nose? You  _ weren't _ thrashin' round in bed like some b-rated horror movie victim? You didn't completely freeze when you woke up, and took three hours to move at all, even with me helping?"

"I--"

Clarence clasps his hands over Philip's, and he freezes. There's something bitter, lingering on his tongue, cold like black ice.

"Philip." He squeezes. Lets go. Watches Philip with heavy eyes, suddenly somber. He, he doesn't know what to  _ do. _

There's a knock at the door; the neighbor, of course, she's asking him for the mail because they always forget which flat is his and which is hers. It's a relief hearing it; an excuse to get away from his… friend. Ms. Sanchez is polite as always, and brief with her request. She fidgets with the strap of her little purse, pulling it up and letting it snap back down, pulling and snapping. A cyclical motion.

God _ damn _ he really wanted those full eight hours of sleep.

He gives her her mail and returns to the kitchen, finding Clarence washing the dishes; a habit he's taken up since beginning to stay over occasionally. Although that  _ occasionally _ is turning into  _ frequently. _ Philip settles himself at the counter, watching his companion. Trying to pin down his features, a pointless endeavor but one he still attempts.

There's a… blurry quality to him. Is his hair blond, or black? Curly, or straight? He's tall - Philip's height, to be exact - but that. That doesn't make sense.

"See somethin' you like?"

The repetitive tease jolts him out of his thoughts. There's something strange in Clarence's…  _ expression, _ but oh, good, he seems to have dropped the topic from before. Every muscle in his shoulders and neck is relaxed as he joins Philip at the counter.

"Sure, sure," Philip says, rolling his eyes. Fondness, surprising but expected now, flutters high in his chest. "Are you staying long…?"

Clarence shakes his head. "Not movin' in yet, sweetcheeks. But, yknow, you might wanna get your own ass movin'."

"Clarence. What are you on about."

"It's ten."

"Oh." 

Oh,  _ fuck _ .

* * *

_ I'm going to fucking kill him. _

Philip grinds his teeth, scribbling harder on just one paper of hundreds. Each one seems to get worse than the last, an endless gallery of all his failures as a teacher.

He wanted the tenured position so he could do  _ less _ of this, not fucking  _ more. _

And it's even worse today because he not only apparently "woke" up late ( _ for a given statement of "wakefulness" _ ), but Clarence dragged his ass telling him. Just so he could, what, continue to tease him?

When did Clarence's strange, suggestive comments become  _ teasing, _ not  _ harassment? _

( _ do you recall? flowers in your palm; to be, to have been. you can't recall them any longer, memories-- _ )

_ Stop. _

He frowns, his red pen hovering shakily over an unmarked paper. He licks his lips; they're dry, impossibly so, like he hasn't had water for days. A shiver wracks through him. 

He drops the pen.

"Philip? Dr. LaFresque?"

He jolts at the words, heart in his throat. He doesn't -- had he -- when did he--?

"Yes?" His voice hardly quivers, but he feels like there's a second voice, hidden in his lungs - quivering, alone.

Knowing.

He tries not to think about what happened just this morning. That dream. That reaching, that  _ mockery-- _

Thinks, instead, of Clarence; of Clarence.

( _ its arms, loose around him like it doesn't want to touch him; and yet, it is still holding him _ )

( _ his not-hair not-eyes not-height not-nothing; but a grin, and tickling, and nothing painful except when everything  _ is _ painful. _ )

A hard swallow. Clarence came back from his travels just… just a short time ago. A year ago now, was it? Or was it two?

( _ Prussia? Egypt? _ )

The student - and it is a student - just needs an extension for a paper due next week. He gives it, knowing the student's history with illness, physical or otherwise. They're not a special exception; for some reason, he's gotten most of those cases in this year's classes. They're all intelligent, sharp students, who just have some specific needs - needs he has no trouble making allowances for.

He's well aware of his reputation within the University, especially among his colleagues. He's almost disgusted by their behavior, but it's not like he's ever been in the position to say anything.

Besides. Who cares if other people think they're using him? He gets what he wants and they get to jerk off at night at the idea of getting ahead of him. Great for them.

He sighs, thoughts thoroughly derailed. Pulls out another paper, beginning over again, already forgetting how his hands shook only moments before, how his heart palpitated and his brow grew cold with sweat.

Remembering will do no good for anyone.

“Helloo…?” He looks up to see Amabel, peeking in through the door the student had left open when they had left. She smiles, raising her hand and knocking lightly against the wood. “Glad to see you in, Philip.” She enters without much more fanfare. “Wanted to check in with you. After the party, you know, Red and I were… worried.”

His face burns. “I’m fine. There’s no reason to worry.”

“That sure doesn’t ring any alarm bells,” she says, dryly. “But if that’s what you want to go with, sure, go ahead. Just know you’re not alone, ok? Even if you think you’re ‘fine’ on your own.”

He doesn’t respond, but the resulting quiet is comfortable, casual. She lets him work through several papers without interruption before speaking again.

“I trust Clarence hasn’t been harassing you too much?”

He almost jumps. “No, not more than can be expected. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of the idiot. He let me come in late today, you know.”

“But… not more than  _ expected _ ?”

“Oh.” Philip shrugs. “Pissing me off, or trying to. But he’s a smart guy. He knows when to back off.”

“Past experience says otherwise.”

“I suppose, but that’s the past. He’s changed, I guess.”

“Really?” She leans, and he realizes just how close she is. He’s remained in his seat, but she’s taken a spot directly beside him, resting her hip against the desk. Amabel doesn’t seem phased; she’s calm, only curious. Without judgement. “In what ways?”

He shifts nervously, trying to place the trail their conversation has made in his mind. Trying to find an answer; because he  _ knows _ , with stunning clarity, that Clarence has changed.  _ In what ways, _ and he finds himself pondering that himself.

Because he knows--

( _ hey-i-think-that’s-a-bit-of-her-skull-on-your-shoe-- _ )

He suddenly feels sick. He cups his hand to his face, squeezing his eyes shut - and frustration strikes through him. He can’t even have a simple conversation with a well known colleague without doing… doing  _ this. _

“Philip? Hey, are you alright?”

Her voice knocks him out of it, and he blinks rapidly, taking in shallow breaths too quickly. She doesn’t appear alarmed; no, just concerned. He gestures vaguely, and she settles. “If you want to repress it, that’s none of my business. But you’re not doing it very well.”

Philip smiles crookedly. “Sure, but at least I’m not puking all over your shoes, right? That’s gotta be a good thing. Better this than that.”

She laughs at that. “Yeah, you’ve got me there.”

“Back to what you were saying, about Clarence,” he neatly segues. “I think it was something recent. Whatever it was, I guess it affected him enough to change him - forcefully. I doubt anything could do shit to him unless it was unexpected and knocked him head over heels.”

“Maybe so,” replies Amabel. “Is it so unlikely that he decided to do it on his own, though? Clarence is… very  _ Clarence. _ Still. And I admit, at first, I thought maybe someone else had stolen his face and was pretending to be him!”

( _ face? what face-- _ )

He shakes his head. “Yeah. At first. But nobody could be Clarence except Clarence, and why would anybody bother to pretend to be him?” A thought - the weight of a truck - his eyes open wide. “Or, possibly - Clarence is pretending to be someone else?”

“Why?” Amabel’s nose wrinkles. “And he doesn’t act  _ that _ differently. Just... not as abrasive.”

He can’t come up with an answer for that, and decides to leave it be. “Why are we talking about him, anyway? He’s not done anything, has he?”

“Oh, no, no. I guess I’ve just been wondering, with how often he’s around you nowadays compared to back then. He seems to enjoy your company much more than he used to. What exactly do you two get up to?”

Philip shrugs. “We talk.”  _ About movies, about philosophy, about science, about memories-- _

Amabel stands up, content with that. “Well, I’m glad to hear you two are getting along. You aren’t really in the position to be upsetting each other, and fights between beings like you…” 

She pauses, face hidden away from him. Her eyelashes catch the light and burn brilliantly, the crown of her head gleaming red as her auburn hair shines. “After my time here, I’ve really come to understand things I hadn’t before. Like you, and like him. And if there’s one thing I learned before all this - it’s that the unknown and ignorance of it make for a poisonous end. It’s good that you are talking, and learning.”

Face turning to him, he meets her gaze and - sees something there. Calm and quietly curious, but most of all, wholly at peace. “Philip, just this once - I want to tell you that I’m glad I know you. That I’ve gotten to know so much about you. And I want you to know that, regardless of if you take the blame or not, which is entirely only for you to know - I want you to know that I’m alright with all of it.”

“Amabel--”

“No, no, let me finish. Maybe we won’t have anything to do with each other, but I’m glad we had this time, anyway. It’s nice to know that someone who didn’t have anything to do with all of it actually wanted to help me, and didn’t care about doing it for any kind of reward. It meant a lot to learn that.” She smiles again, but her eyes are shiny. “So. If you could accept this as an apology of sorts, and forgiveness - I’d appreciate that.”

He stares at her, stunned, at a loss for words - but then they find a way out of him, all at once. “I still don’t know what I feel about it. It happened, and I swear I’m getting nightmares - but it’s done, it happened, it’s in the past. Amabel, there’s no reason for you to apologise. But…. thank you. For forgiving me. Even if I’m maybe not the one you should be forgiving.”

Her expression breaks, ever so carefully, just a fraction, but it’s enough. Without warning, she grabs him, pulling him in - hugging him. He settles, her arms reaching around his shoulders awkwardly, his own arms reaching hesitantly up and resting between her shoulder blades. Her hold is not restricting, squeezing in that comfortable way that brings to mind close relatives before they became distant. Philip shuts his eyes, and can’t help but nestle his head beside hers. She makes a sad sort of sound then, like she’s just found a hidden secret that makes a tragedy satisfying - or maybe he imagines it.

Either way, they remain like that for only a few moments. She doesn’t say anything more, simply smiling her honest smile before leaving.

Like nothing had occurred at all - but he’ll have the memory of it, and that, that… That’s enough for him.


	12. i don't like this feeling anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I can feel the waves  
>  Crashing into my brain  
> I can feel the spirit  
> From light years away_
> 
> _I can feel the sun  
>  Beating upon my skin  
> I can feel the earths rotation  
> From beginning to the end_
> 
> _And I can feel their eyes on me  
>  And it's giving me anxiety  
> And I don't like this feeling anymore  
> And I'll never feel like the way I felt before_
> 
> _ [Trevor Something - Feel The Waves](https://youtu.be/WZZmFNFp-kQ) _

There's affection in him, he knows. That's the only explanation for how warm he feels, with Clarence beside him-- 

( _ there's distance, and yet he feels breathing in his ear, hair standing on end at the back of his neck. sensation flutters weakly across his knuckles, left hand angled towards Clarence _ )

\--the other is nattering on and on, rude and crude remarks about the set pieces and costume design of the movie, the lack of gore ("it's a romance, clarence," "that doesn't excuse it!"), and, pointedly, its whole existence as a movie that is not  _ It's A Wonderful Life. _ Philip still has no idea where his attachment to that damn film came from.

There's affection in that confusion, as well. He doesn't know why.

_ You know why. _

(" _ don't you feel anything? anything at all? you won't remember me at all? _ "  _ and he knew the answer, and she knew it, too. _ )

"What purpose do you think these  _ caricatures _ were created for?" scoffs Clarence beside him. "Some idealized fantasy, or to manipulate brainless monkeys into buyin' shit they don't want and don't need in order to appease a partner they only want to fulfill their lust with?"

"You're rather cynical, sometimes."

Clarence gives him a sarcastic look. "Gee, what gave you that idea? Yes, Philip, I'm what you'd call cynical, but I'd rather call it bein'  _ realistic. _ "

"You're delusional if you think I buy that," Philip sighs. "And no, I don't think romance is 'some idealized fantasy.' The characters are just an expression and fictionalized version of it. Whether it's a fantasy or not - I'd think that depends on the writer."

"This writer definitely is living in some kinda fantasy world. Look at those dresses! Sheesh, the wonders an empty, horny guy can come up with."

Philip elbows his companion, slightly irritated at the turn in conversation. "I'm pretty sure a woman directed this. And look, clearly they didn't have much of a budget, but their heart's still in the right place."

"Woman, man,  _ whatever, _ if you're horny, you're horny! Monkey, you've got no taste. All she's doin' is makin' goo goo eyes while her crush is wanderin' round lookin' for the plot. Not that she'll find one; it's crystal clear that they've lost all ideas at this point.  _ This _ is supposed to be a romance of the ages? I don't know what I expected from you lot."

They stare at the television. The princess is lost, wandering around - just as Clarence had said - but she's not purposeless. There's steel in her brown eyes and a letter, adorned with roses, in her slender hand. The scene changes from the rugged props of a medieval town to the outskirts of a dark forest; the main character - and no doubt the one who sent the letter - kneels amidst the undergrowth. Her eyes are weighted; she's waiting. With anxiety or anticipation? It's hard to tell.

Philip can't stay his quiet, seeing that bright light in the two skillful actresses' eyes. "You don't pay attention at all, Clarence."

"Of course you would say that," Clarence sneers. It's not unexpected, but Philip finds himself wounded despite knowing it would happen. Clarence, for as comfortable as Philip's become around him - Clarence still has a poisoned blade for a tongue. "You may say I'm cynical, but at least I'm not a bloody romantic."  _ Unlike you. _

Philip's brow furrows. "You think me a romantic? Weren't you the one suggesting I'll die an old man, with a weedy yard and an empty, falling apart shack of a house?"

"Well, yes." Clarence waves his hand dismissively. "But that's not because of a lack of romanticism - no, you'll die alone because you fantasize, and fantasy and daydreaming are useless. Inaction kills, monkey, and with your head dissociated from reality, it's no wonder in my mind why you're alone."

The television is a buzz of white noise. Philip starts to reply, but his mouth snaps shut. He rubs his eyes, as if the momentary blindness will vanquish Clarence into the nothingness behind his eyelids. Clarence is still watching - that paint splotted face, bleeding colours washed out into dull half-shades - yet it's more like he's waiting.  _ Anxiety or anticipation? _ For the briefest moment, he thinks there's someone else sitting in Clarence's place, different words whispered out from behind white teeth.

"You," he finally says. "You can't expect me to not want things that can't happen. I know the fallacies of other people; I understand that ignoring the reality of who a person is will only result in desperation on all sides. Don't take me for a fool."

"Oh, but I will," Clarence replies, and he leans in. His eyes… "How could I not? You say you want things that are impossible, and yet you romanticize strangers, spinning a fanciful fairytale. Do you really want it, monkey? For all of your alleged wits, you sure do seem hesitant."

"Hesitant?" Now Philip sneers. "Don't make me laugh. Everything I've ever done - every obstacle I've faced - I've pushed my way through. What about that says  _ hesitant _ ? Says  _ fanciful _ ?"

"You separate realities in your head, Philip. In one, you are a stalwart, powerful machine - storming on ahead, using your puny little brain to puzzle out switches and boxes to let you continue. In the other?" 

They're definitely not watching the film; he's not sure if they're even talking about it anymore. Philip's breath is stuttered in his chest, a haze thickening in his head and making him drowsy. Heavy, he can't help but meet the creature's gaze; impossible, impenetrable. Blue eyes, not green; he was mistaken.

Reflected inside them - no, hidden, tucked away behind them - is a polaroid image. Grainy, warped by age. And yet, he can so clearly see them, her, cast far away.

( _ unreachable and untouchable. an affect of only his hands and teeth. _ )

"Monkey, Philip, in the other you are just  _ dreaming. _ Nothing moves your hand, and everything you hold crumbles, slipping away as sand in the sea." Clarence is so close. When did he move? Those eyes are twin marbles, held in an ashen palm. "So yes, you  _ are _ hesitant, dear  _ monkey. _ "

He withdraws, and like a wave pulling away from the beach, Philip can suddenly breath. He tries to keep his… abnormal reaction silent, keeping his lungs tightly controlled even as they ache to draw gulps of thin air.

Clarence isn't done. "And that, Philip, is why I cannot  _ for the life of me _ believe a single moment of sappy, sugary sweet loveydovey bullshit in movies like this. It's all just some excuse for lonely fuckers to feel good despite knowing nothing truthful about their partner. Merely fantasies pigs profit off of."

Philip can't just let him have the final word. If not due to his own convictions, then by principle alone. "Maybe you see it like that, but most people pursue relationships because they feel something from it. Our brains desire -  _ crave _ \- feelings of affection and comfort. Not just to satisfy an urge our physical bodies lust after. We may build fictional worlds just to sustain trust between us, but they serve us more than you might think. If we didn't create expectations, it would increase the likelihood of pain and betrayal the deeper in we go."

Clarence makes a disgusted face. Impractical, with all the blue dyes melting into the skin of his cheeks, but he makes do. "Gross. I think I might barf, hearin' that outta your mouth."

"No, listen," Philip says, sitting up fully. He spares a moment rubbing his lower ribs, but even with his chest still tight his breathing is fine. "Maybe you find it abhorrent, and to each their own - but you must recognize that it isn't some delusional, hopeless fantasy."

"I grow tired of your senseless conjecture."

Philip sighs, but settles down again. He runs his hand over his eye; the pain in the left ocular is an ever haunting presence, but it's dulled. His fingers tap against his eyelid, and he flinches; his eye waters, droplets pearling unpleasantly from the corners. He glances over at Clarence, words stuck fast in his throat. 

Sometimes he wishes he had photographic memory, because the shadow of the being he can't see the face of has a voice and it won't speak. White shines off of the reflection of its eyes, but it has no colour, no iris. It isn't staring; it isn't watching.

Simply waiting.

( _ anxiety or anticipation? she'll laugh like she understands it, but he can see the faintness in their attention. a flower, and it won't last; he won't last. _ )

( _ is it the same? repulsion, it says, but it's waiting. _ )

( _ he hates it. _ )

"You're a liar, Clarence," says someone, and Philip realizes it's him. It's just him. "You're quite good, I'll give you that, but you are not one to hide things."

Is the film even playing anymore? He isn't watching, but the green sofa beneath him has disappeared. There's wind in his hair before it's gone again; a ticking clock. They're in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a mug full of warmth.

"You lie, and you manipulate, and you  _ hate. _ " He's seething, and he knows  _ why. _ "Do you like this game, Clarence? Does it make you feel good, like all those people you called fools?"

Clarence is the one avoiding his gaze now, watching his hands lain flat on the countertop. They're across each other, sitting on high stools. The height makes him dizzy.

Teeth peek behind strange, familiar flesh. "I can't bring myself to put on some show, somethin' to laugh at later. A bit worn down, monkey. You're exhaustin', truthfully, but I'm comin' to think…"

"Think…? Think  _ what, _ Clarence? Answer me, you fucking--" The anger deserts him, suddenly; violently. "This isn't right. I don't - I don't--"

"Do you think, really think, that I'm enjoying this? Cuz suffice to say, Uncle Clarence is  _ not. _ This isn't right, and you're still  _ doing _ it."

Philip shakes. He snarls. "I'm not forcing you, asshole. I don't have any fucking  _ control. _ I had thought that this was just - I hadn't considered this at all."

He puts his head in his hands. What else can he do? His brain feels as though it is leaking, murky, filthy liquid pouring out his ears and splattering him with its film. He closes his eyes tight, and the image of those two characters emerge behind them. He swallows ice.

A hand hesitantly brushes his hunched shoulder, so light it makes him shiver. He stays still, almost inhumanely so, as it slips to the back of his head, so gentle as it rests in the tangles of his hair at the nape of his neck.

( _ squirming, in his chest; horror? but his eyes only twitch rapidly, his face turns strangely, and his hands itch. he isn't horrified. he doesn't know what he is. _ )

"You're changing me, Philip." His voice, still unplaceable, hitches. It burns like a heartache. Fingers reach further, and he can feel how much heat his skull is emitting just from the chill of its fingers, so calmly, so shakily cooling him down by increments. "And for all this tires me out, I think it'll be… worth it."

It laughs. "Your trainwreck of a brain has caught me under the tracks! Who would've thought your clammy, useless little brain could be so bloody charmin'?"

Philip watches the yawning of its teeth, bleached bone in muddy darkness. When did he open his eyes? Its hands cup his jaw.

"Now," he says. "Now, my monkey, let's see you and me make a fantasy of our own, eh?"

Sharp teeth, but they don't sink into his flesh; the hot, wet cave of its mouth holds him almost tenderly.

"Don't you worry your crazy little mind, Philip. Your pal Clarence will take better care now. No lookin' up the magician's sleeve this time! Otherwise, I'm not sure you'd live through to morning, and neither of us want that, now do we?"

( _ his hands are buried deep, to the chest, into the broken expanse of its ribcage. how could this have happened? _ )

  
( _ why? _ )


	13. minute in decimal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Think of these thoughts as limitless light  
>  Exposing closing circuitry of fright  
> Think of each moment holding this breath  
> As death minute in decimal_
> 
> _All mine towers crumble down  
>  The flowers gasping under rubble  
> Shrieking in the hall of lull  
> Thy genius sates a thirst for trouble_
> 
> _Scattering sparks of thought energy  
>  Deliver me and carry me away  
> Here in my kingdom, I am your lord  
> I order you to cower and PRAY_
> 
> _Spiraling down thy majesty  
>  I beg of thee, have mercy on me  
> I plead of thee -- have sympathy for me!_
> 
> _See how the serfs work the ground  
>  See how they fall!  
> And they give it all they've got!  
> And they give it all they've got  
> And you give it all you've got  
> Till you're down!  
> (Ha ha ha ha!)  
> See how the brain plays around  
> And you fall inside a hole you couldn't see  
> And you fall inside a hole--  
> Inside a--  
> \--!_
> 
> _ [ミラクルミュージカル/Miracle Musical - The Mind Electric](https://youtu.be/0vfZjdK8Ktw) _

_ He's somewhere dark and deep, deep below the earth. It swallowed him, he thinks, or perhaps it opened below him and he couldn't deny his curiosity. _

_ He's being followed. _

_ It's not something he's afraid of; no, there is no cold fear living inside him any longer. He doesn't know when it left him. He finds he doesn't much mind, because many things have left him. _

_ Is that why he leaves what few things he has? As a sign he understands? He won't let it catch him. _

_ It follows him, but it will stop. He can't let it catch him, for once it does it will realize - something. He presses cold hands to the sick heat of his forehead as he moves along. It will stop following him once it realizes it won't catch him. _

_ The hallways of the mouth sway around him, an unearthly cradle. He yearns, with a heart ache he'd thought he'd forgotten, for someone he knows. For someone he knows to, to show - show him something. _

_ Confusion. The sweat clouds his eyes; he gasps a weak breath, stumbling. He hates this. He fucking  _ hates _ this. _

_ He knows who he is. He does! He's not some - whimpering fool, brought low in the dark from something like dried blood. Only the freshest violence will cause him pain. _

_ 「 _ That is a lie, monkey, and you know it. _ 」 _

_ He barely processes the words before he's bowled over, thrown hard into the blood soaked earth. His chin jerks painfully, and iron bubbles in his throat before vanishing. His ribs creak under the weight of his assailant, and he struggles wildly until it hisses in his ear and jabs unpleasantly sharp elbows into his shoulder blades. Its weight is unnaturally heavy; he swallows a choked noise as he realizes it's straddling him. _

_ It squeezes him between its legs. He hadn't realized he'd lost enough weight for it to so easily do that. _

_ 「 _ You gonna listen, pretty boy? _ 」At his mortified reaction, it simply laughs.「 _ I betcha are. Nowhere left to go, nowhere left to hide away. Do you know how long it's been, tryin' to get ya here? You're one weasly sonabitch. _ 」 _

_ He hisses, but it's right; he can't move his legs or arms, heaviness suffusing into his limbs like poison. _

_ 「 _ You keep finding new ways to get away! Like a dyin' rat, squirmin' into little holes and crannies as if that'll fix the rot growing in the holes of your soul. _ 」 _

_ He rests his forehead against the ground, hoping that the frigid temperature will clear away the overheat in his thoughts. A chuckle; it readjusts, leaning forward. Phantom teeth skim the curve of his ear.「 _ Why do we exist, I wonder? I admit, I wish you hadn't been born. Then we wouldn't be in this mess. _ 」 _

_ He struggles, this time bracing his elbows and lifting his skull up. He shivers; it followed his motion, its teeth withdrawn but he can feel the ghost of its nose, hovering at the back of his head. His mouth is numb, lips formless - but he shudders through a whisper.  _ I can't control that. Take it up with the dead, if you're so bothered by it.

_ It guffaws, outrageous and overwhelming.「 _ Envy for the dead, what a thing to experience! Don't you think at all, with that little, endurin', flounderin' brain of yours - don't you wonder? I am only here because of  _ you, _ silly billy. And you're only here because of the chemicals in other people. How worthless is that? _ 」 _

I won't argue with you on that. What are you truly asking me, Clarence?

_ 「 _ I'm  _ asking _ you just what you want from all this. I get my… little fantasy, just for a little while - and you? If you die, it will all be for nothing, you know that, don't you? _ 」 _

_ He can't turn to meet its gaze; he almost feels as though it is delighting in being completely unseen in this place for once.  _ As long as I live, it will have meaning. I didn't come here expecting much.

_ 「 _ 'Didn't come here expecting much?' _ 」It scoffs. Anger simmers under the surface of its words.「 _ Bullshit. You were askin' for trouble, and you got it. You call this  _ meaning _ ? The things you've done in this place, the hoops you've jumped, the people you've killed. All just to find your dearest daddy dead. All just to get  _ me, _ stuck here with  _ you.」 _

Is it so bad? Veni, vidi, vixi; can't it be the same for you? Just as I never asked to be born, you never did either. I came of my own volition, but everything after was out of my hands.

_ 「 _ How could you think that? Are you really that stupid? _ 」He can sense its incredulity.「 _ You didn't need to keep going! You could've turned back, you could've found another way! Damn your curiosity. Damn  _ you _ . Those people were going to die, but  _ you _ sped it along - and you blame me while denying your own actions! _ 」It seethes.「 _ Hypocrite. _ 」 _

_ It grasps his jaw, craning his neck back. He grunts, wiggling uncomfortably, but it halts him with a forceful pressure of its hips against his back. Its hands are scaly, rough against his bobbing adam's apple. Its face is close; its forehead rests against the crown of his head. If not for the minute twitches of its fingers, squeezing and relaxing over and over, and the protest of his neck at the angle - he almost feels gently held. _

_ 「 _ I  _ hate _ you. _ 」it says, wetly.「 _ We are born just to die, and you say  _ i came, i saw, i lived.  _ Like that means anything. You didn't need to come here. You didn't need to be born. You didn't need the blood you've got rusting under your nails - but you do. And I'm here, bloodying myself with you. _ 」 _

Do you really hate me?  _ he says quietly. Its thumb rubs circles into his throat, soft over the jugular. It can't hurt him, not here.  _ You've been trapped, directionless. I didn't do anything to you except exist. Whether you…  _ bloody _ yourself with me is your own folly. All I wanted was to know.

_ 「 _ And your wanting has killed, and it's destroyed. Are you proud of what you've found, Philip? _ 」It rasps. It shifts him in its hands, and like a bowing tree, it rests his face to the dirt. It doesn't want him to see it.「 _ Through your rotten luck, I can't hurt you. Not just here; not at all. Not in the way I did before. _ 」It stops; slowly, it moves, and he knows it's buried its face in his hair. He can't move; it's plastered itself to his back, leaving his legs free, but…「 _ You've distracted me, monkey, my monkey. _ 」 _

_ He remains silent. His heart pounds, but its touch seems to eke out the fever in his skull, and he relaxes at the relief. It holds his face firmly, movements of its lithe fingers hitching his breath. His eyes flutter shut. _

_ 「 _ Is this distraction nice? _ 」it whispers, energy a barely controlled animal in its voice.「 _ You don't know what you want. Your life is nothin' but a stain, and only in the memory of the Tuurngait. I would bet money that your dad only just remembered your name. And you think  _ veni, vidi, vixi.」 _

_ They're drowning. He's breathing, but only taking in more water. It's keeping him breathing. It doesn't want to, he thinks, and suddenly that fear he thought dead resurrects in his chest. It doesn't want to. It  _ doesn't want to.

_ There's a sad sound, echoing somewhere far away.「 _ There ya go again. _ 」 _

_ The water is dark, blinding; his eyes pry open under the force, and all he can see is the blackness of nothing ahead. _

_ And still, it keeps its grip, molasses hands holding fast and sifting out the poison in his blood. _

_ 「 _ You really don't know. _ 」 _

_ The darkness is hypnotic. _

_ Whatever it murmurs into the shell of his ear is lost to the waves pulling him down into the deep black of untouched soil. _


	14. blinded by the sun, trapped in the snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey there  
>  What happened to the fun  
> Stuck in the snow  
> Blinded by the sun  
> There's nowhere to hide  
> There's nowhere to run  
> My love is pure  
> Second to none_
> 
> _Oh Lord  
>  What have we done  
> Oh darling  
> What have we done_
> 
> _All alone  
>  What have we done  
> I'm chasing the heavens  
> I'm chasing the sun_
> 
> _All alone  
>  What have we done  
> Oh baby  
> Run, run, run  
> Run, run, run  
> What have I done  
> What have I done  
> What have I done  
> Take my hand and run  
> Take my hand and run  
> What have I done  
> Run run run  
> Run run run, run away  
> Oh baby, run run run away_
> 
> _ [UNKLE - Nowhere to Run](https://youtu.be/_0ANXCA_0UE) _

Where is he? He feels like that is a question he's asked before. The question of the ages.

He - he's outside. He thinks he was at work, but then he… He left? Yes, yes. He had left. 

Why?

He coughs, sudden and loud in the static silence. His eyes water as he tries to locate himself; his clothes are rumpled. His collared shirt has the first button undone, and his coat is covered in a layer of dust he can't shake off. He's on the side of a road; his sneakers feel full of rocks. He's been walking? Where?

A car drives by, heading away from him; he's alone again quickly after. The air is bright with afternoon sunlight, forcing him to blink rapidly and squint through its intensity. The wind is his only companion; the road is worn away asphalt, so old as to be crumbling at the edges where he stands. The dusty ground is infertile, barren apart from the spare reedy weeds that sprout further away from the road, down a gentle slope. The slope levels, he sees, and the dust isn't dust; it's sand, so fine that it might as well be powder. As the winds pick up, billowing his hair away from his face, he smells salt.

Through the brilliance, there is the sea. His hair is dry and stringy with evaporated seawater.

"Philip?"

He startles, hand dropping from where he had tried to protect his eyes from the sun. His fingers twitch in an uncontrollable staccato.

"Philip," says the person. The light blinds him; he can't see who they are. "There you are. Don't you know not to play in troubled waters?"

He blinks rapidly, cursing his failing sight. "I - I'm not sure where I am?"

The person laughs, and, unintentionally, he relaxes at the familiar sound. It's Clarence; no one else he knows sounds like that.

( _ you won't fuss over your lack of sight, your blindness; everyone is blind, and so it must be alright for you to submit to it as well. _ )

"Well, Philip," says Clarence, and a hand lands on his shoulder with a friendly thump. It begins to lead him away. "Let's just head this way, eh, monkey man?"

And so they do; Philip stumbling, the light dying just enough but  _ not enough _ , and Clarence guiding him without comment. He finds it easier to close his eyes for minutes at a time, opening them momentarily to orientate himself before retreating again. He knows his lack of vision makes him sway unsteadily, and he feels when Clarence must correct his path - but the light is too much, too bright. It burns and dizzies him.

Finally, after what seems too long, they make it to a car. Clarence's, he assumes; red, plain. He leans against the front part of it, and when he opens his eyes he can see again.

"Didn't expect you out here, monkey."

They're closer to the sea than he had expected; Clarence parked almost carelessly close, the waves breaking just several yards away. He puts his shaking hands into his pockets, eyes locked on the overcast sky. Seagulls fly on overhead with sharp calls. Unable to look away from the velvet white of the birds' wings, he rasps, "Didn't expect myself out here either. What are you doing out on the coast?"

Clarence has left Philip's side, crouching amidst the wet sand and seashells, uncaring that the edges of the waves are reaching him. The water dampens the cuffs of his pants, his pink sandals flooding with water. Philip almost wants to laugh at seeing the damn things on his companion, but he's a little too disorientated to. The absurdity is almost daunting rather than amusing.

"Nothin' much," comes Clarence's response. Philip can't remember what he'd asked. "You feelin' better, Philip? You looked like a corpse left out in the sun too long. Gross."

Philip huffs a laugh. "How insulting."

They fall quiet, just watching the pull and push of the tide. He's recovering. It feels like he's always  _ recovering _ but never quite  _ recovered. _ The thought is more tiring than it is frustrating; he runs a hand through his ratty hair, trying to parse together the words he can feel clustered in his throat, to no avail. He wonders how he's managed in the past for so long, when recently he falls apart at the flip of a dime. That absent frustration burns hollow inside him; he can only grit his teeth and take shallow breaths to abate the anger.

"Did you mean it?" The words plop out of his mouth like rotting fruit from a splitting, too full garbage bag. He doesn't know where the words are coming from. "What you said? Did you mean it, Clarence?"

He looks up, his jacket collar obscuring his expression. Blonde hair puffs in a messy array all around his head; like some kind of messed up halo. 

"Yes."

It's all he says. Philip shivers, the wind bone chilling, and he pulls his thin jacket tighter around him. The fabric smells musty. He swallows uselessly in the pounding noise of the sea. 

"You - I heard that you were leaving?" Philip's mouth is dry. "You still have your own studies, after all. I don't know why you haven't already."  _ Wasting your time, wasting your time. _

( _ when did you become someone i know? where did the ghost go? was it ever really there? _ )

Clarence looks bewildered. "What gave you that idea, monkey? I'm not goin' anywhere til I'm good and ready. Silly billy."

Philip shrugs, his skin prickling unpleasantly. He turns away, as if that would convince the strange being to leave.

Unseen movement; the rustle of baggy pants and a thick leather jacket. "You're a strange, scared little bastard sometimes. Confuses the shit outta me."

"Ha!" Philip grins. "I  _ am _ a bastard. Always, not just sometimes."

That startles a gruff laugh out of him: the sound is just behind his shoulder, but he doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to see.

"Daddy sire you outta wedlock?" He whistles. "I'd say tough shit if I cared. What does it matter?"

Philip grimaces. "It matters when your mother didn't ask for you and your peers haven't learned how to stay out of other people's business."

"Wow. Bitter much? Everyone's dealt a bad hand. You shouldn't waste your efforts pissin' and whinin' about it."

"That… is incredibly hypocritical of you."

"What? I am the exception, not the rule."

"What kind of nonsense is that?" Philip shakes his head. "Maybe you're right that I ruminate too much, but that's something new. I'll get passed it, like I always do."

Clarence is silent for a beat. His presence is comforting; heavy. "Why do you do this? You didn't say, but we both know it doesn't matter. Hasn't for a long time now."

Philip squeezes his eyes shut. "It may not matter, but I still think about it. So many things could've been different; it could've been worse, it could've been better. But it wasn't."

"...what ifs and could've beens aren't all that fun to ponder, monkey. No wonder you're such a depressed shit all the time."

"Fuck you, Clarence."

"Hey, I'm in the same boat. No need for insults, dear monkey." At his frank words, Philip almost turns around to face him, stopped only by a gentle pressure of Clarence's hand on his shoulder. "No, not yet, buddy. Do ya ever wonder 'bout those kids you were so terrified of? I sure do. Bleedin' knuckles and failin' grades don't point to a good direction."

"For the most part, no. They could be dead in a ditch somewhere for all I care."

Clarence's grip tightens. "You were a mean brat, weren't you? Wonder what happened to that punk."

"Disappeared like all children, eventually; the world isn't kind, and it is preferable to keep a steady head."

"You've always kept a steady head, even when you ought not to. Philip, what do ya think woulda happened if you had hit back?"

_ Blood in your mouth. Blood on your hands. A picture of a boy you could've been; he sneers, and you know he'll hit harder than he wants to. _

Philip abruptly escapes Clarence's grip, the movement weak and jarring enough that it could've held him fast but… decided not to.

He tramps into the wet sand, his holely sneakers quickly dampening, his socks wettening as his feet meet the lip of a receding wave. When it returns, it'll surely come up to his ankle; the cold already feels heavenly.

"I see." It followed. Its breath, absent of temperature, condensates against his neck. "I see, Philip."

They wait until the tide comes in, the water lapping around their ankles, rising. Clarence drapes its arm around him as they walk back to the car; a part of Philip feels as though they are still back on the shore, drowning slowly.


	15. a long way from land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Désolé contraband  
>  Désolé  
> I'm a long way from land  
> Désolé  
> I don't know what to do  
> Désolé, désolé  
> I’m trying to hold on to you_
> 
> _Ko teriya mana diya  
>  Désolé  
> A kana ma lamè  
> Désolé, désolé  
> A kana ma lamè  
> Désolé_
> 
> _Désolé compliqué  
>  Désolé  
> I don't know what to say anymore  
> Désolé  
> While everyone on the move  
> Désolé, désolé  
> I'm trying to hold on to you  
> Désolé_
> 
> _Ko teriya manay diya  
>  Désolé  
> A kana ma lamè  
> Désolé,  
> Désolé, désolé  
> Désolé, désolé  
> A kana ma lamè  
> Désolé_
> 
> _Désolé_
> 
> _Désolé  
>  Désolé contraband  
> Désolé  
> C'est une longue file d'attente  
> Désolé  
> Tous mes phantoms sans bleu_
> 
> _Désolé, désolé  
>  I’m trying to hold on to you  
> Désolé, désolé, ah ahan_
> 
> _Désolé  
>  O diyalen, o diyalen, ah ahan  
> Désolé  
> Désolé, désolé, ah ahan_
> 
> _Désolé  
>  Ahaan_
> 
> _ [Gorillaz (ft. Fatoumata Diawara) - Désolé ](https://youtu.be/EjB6-VR_KQU) _

They stop at a gas station without speaking. He realizes he's thirsty; Clarence motions him out, staying behind as he nips in for a bottle of water.

When he exits, Clarence is out of the car, leaning against the brick wall just to the right of the entryway. The station doesn't have any windows; there are no cameras. Whoever is inside can't see them. The thought is… surprisingly pleasing to him.

It's like a moment straight out of a film noir as he approaches: a haze of smoke mists around it, like a headless body. The cigarette in its hand blooms with a faint purple glow at the end, ash flaking and disappearing into nothingness. Its shoulders are hunched, its lower back bracing it against the brick; the thick leather of its jacket is unzipped, the red flannel beneath unmistakably thick and warm. With its bright baby pink sandals, the air around it is of peace; placidly unemotive.

It exhales, smoke clouding ever heavier, and takes another drag of nicotine. "Get what you need?"

"Yes," he replies. It sounds rough, quiet. But it's not unsettled, he thinks; simply… calm. "Didn't know you smoked."

It blinks, half moon cut out eyes momentarily appearing in the grey. Then it grins, more smoke billowing out its mouth. Strangely, he doesn't need to cough, and the smell only evokes bittersweet memories of distant relatives from a long ago youth. 

( _ she sometimes excused herself, coming back smelling of something sweet and earthen. he never asked them. _ )

"You thought they were smokin', you just weren't sure of what. You coulda asked, but you never did."

He shrugs, uncomfortable, and drops back against the wall beside it. The wall is rocky and uneven, the texture vivid through his jacket. It continues smoking; the smog doesn't reach him, simply keeping around the faint shape of its head and shoulders.

"Ya know, I think I quite like this," it says through black teeth. Its eyes glint like knives. "The rush, the ash. Smells  _ smoky. _ Smokin' hot, babey."

Philip chuckles. "Glad to hear. Just know I don't smoke, alright? I don't intend to get lung cancer or any of that shit."

"Sure, sure. Sayin' it now doesn't mean you won't later."

"Hm."

Clarence smokes. Philip cracks open his water and swallows it down with deep gulps, but he knows he's still thirsty. Not much for it, really.

"Yowtch!"

Philip blinks, turning to see Clarence stick its fingers into its mouth, soothing a burn. The cigarette lies discarded on the concrete, smoked almost to the filter. "I don't think you're supposed to do that."

"Fuck off." It grumbles, the black bleeding away from its gums. It shoves its hands into its pockets. "What, no concern for my poor finger? How heartless."

"...how's your finger?"

"Gah, the magic's all gone!" It scuffs its sandals on the ground, crushing the cigarette remnant beneath its toe. "What a waste. A fuckin' waste. Shit."

"You're really that upset? I don't even know how you could get a 'rush,' let alone how you got the damn thing anyway." It continues pouting, the smoke still thick around it but somehow bluer. "Was it interesting, at least?"

It raises its hand, rubbing the almost invisible line of its jaw. "Hm… yes, it was."

It leverages itself off the wall. "Let's get outta here, philly boy. No use lingerin'."

He hums in agreement, following it back to the car and climbing in. Before Clarence gets in itself, however, it digs around in its pockets, a delighted noise quiet in its throat as it finds what it was searching for.

In its hand is another cigarette. It lights up, and they drive away with smoke wisping out the window.


	16. someday, for sure--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I despised each day, which was so nonsensical,  
>  And I consoled myself.  
> Cut and paste—  
> My life was continuously looping._
> 
> _It was all packed into one take  
>  and it meant nothing at all.  
> Tear it up and stitch it back together—  
> My life was continuously looping._
> 
> _Satisfying myself with hatred  
>  only makes me more wounded.  
> Everything’s no good.  
> In the worst spirits, party! Party!_
> 
> _Satisfying myself with you  
>  only makes me more attracted to you.  
> I want everything!  
> In the best spirits, party! Party!_
> 
> _A lullaby slips into the darkness.  
>  A goodbye passes through the darkness.  
> I struggle around, seeking hope.  
> Someday, for sure—_
> 
> _Who are you, reflected there in the mirror?  
>  An inappropriate smile appears on your face.  
> You’re a rag doll afflicted by poison.  
> Looks like you’ll break at any moment…_
> 
> _ [大沼パセリ - Corruption](https://youtu.be/t0B6QJFJ0LM) _

Philip braces himself against the car, the wind a roar in his ears, tossing his hair every which way. Clarence isn't handling it much better; he seems almost disorientated with how his not-hair can't acclimate quite right to the force of it. He puts a hand up, trying to wrangle it into something like complacency, but when lengthening strands throw themselves into his mouth, he gives up, much to Philip's bemusement.

"Where did you pick up the smoking?" Philip finally says. They're home, but neither are ready to depart each other's company. They're not in a rush, not right now.

"Do I need a reason?"

Philip shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Not givin' me much choice, huh, monkey?" Clarence grins, wry and sharp. He looks away from Philip, cocking his head toward the wide expanse of the sky. "And I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest. Picked up a packet and thought, why not?"

His fingers twitch, and he lights up again. Philip is almost… ill at ease, just waiting for him to inhale and exhale, tapping ash from the end of it. Like he's supposed to cause a ruckus, or snatch it out of his hands - or something. Anything other than just standing idly by. He's puzzled by the urge, puzzled by the recriminations darting through his mind, and almost doesn't notice when Clarence sits down on the hood of the car. 

He's Philip's height, alright; his legs dangle over the edge, just a few inches but enough for his ridiculous baby pink sandals to flip flop in the wind. He motions for Philip to join him, smoke clouding pleasantly around his head.

"Past experience?" He mutters, grinding and low. Philip doesn't understand until he continues, "You seem like you've got a history with nicotine."

( _ vague words, carrying with them a hundred years worth of meaning. will you say you remember, or confess that you can't? _ )

Philip closes his eyes, cold fluttering like an ensnared bird in his lungs. He mulls over the question, letting the silence percolate as Clarence simply smokes and he simply thinks.

He could just… not answer, he realizes. This simplicity - it's unlikely to last for long, but he can't deny the momentary comfort it brings. Quiet, peaceful, comfortable. Nothing like cramped hallways and creaking doors, hiding strange nightmares within.

( _ nothing like the unease, the alien sensation of someone standing beside him but so very, very far away. _ )

A tap on his elbow. "Still with me, monkey?"

He nods. Yes, he could stay his silence; in his mind's eye, he can so clearly see the time pass, the two of them separating abrupt as fog burns under morning light - he can so clearly see the discussion dropped, never spoken, never buried.

He opens his eyes.  _ Pathways before me, one begging easy simplicity; the other… _

( _ it's a small, meaningless choice; but those are the most important ones, aren't they? _ )

( _ and the unknown, the path untraveled; that is always more enticing than a straightforward way out. _ )

"When I was very young," he says, catching Clarence's keen eyes as he looks up to meet the other's gaze. "My mother smoked. And the way it suffocated the house, how it clung on our clothes and how, late at night, I could hear her coughing so hard that, as a kid, I thought she was dying… it made a lasting impression on me, I guess. She stopped before I turned eight, though."

Clarence takes another long drag, slow to respond; his eyes glint thoughtfully in the dimness. Eventually, he says, "You got a grudge, little monkey?"

He says it so easily, despite the undercurrent of snideness he can't hide. Philip can't help himself - he laughs, quiet and short, much to Clarence's consternation.

"What? You find the stupidest shit funny, I swear."

"No, no, it's not that," says Philip. "It's just that… that's a pretty funny idea. Me, holding grudges? Of  _ course _ not Clarence, where could you have  _ possibly _ gotten that idea from?"

Clarence laughs himself, startled. When they grin at each other, the absurdity of it all - "waking" up on some random beach, running into Clarence dressed like a shut in, buying water from a gas station, having some kind of heart to heart on  _ smoking _ of all things - well, it gets to him. He laughs again, alongside Clarence, leaning precariously close to the other. As if he isn't feeling startingly, absurdly raw.

"You bear grudges like a corpse bears maggots," Clarence says through a laughing smile. Does he know how his eyes glint in the lowlight, how the smoke just makes him look like he's crying? "Fruitfully."

"Fruit- _ fly _ -ly," says Philip, and Clarence  _ cackles _ . 

"Sure, sure, whatever you say, smartass," he responds, lightly digging his elbow into Philip's side before lurching away, taking another drag. Smoke curls from his mouth and nostrils, and again Philip feels thrust into a film, watching a stranger play at being beautiful. "Smoking isn't gonna kill me, monkey."

"Wasn't concerned."

"Thanks. You feeling better about some latent guilt at not even asking her to stop  _ definitely _ wasn't my goal, no sirree."

Philip casts a thoughtful look at his companion, unintentionally meeting the other's eyes as he turns, too. The smoke intermingles between them, soft and cold, ash clouding, choking the air. He can hardly breathe for how dense it is, and still more plumes from Clarence's cigarette, from his sharp, crescent moon smile.

They're so close. If he blinks, he thinks he can see someone else, far away - but she's there and gone again, a ghost that he haunts the whispers of.

"Y'know what, monkey…"

(c _ larence is so much closer than they ever were, says the quiet in your mind, and what follows out from its silence is the hidden truth: you are afraid. _

she wrapped you in her arms, and you froze, a small bird with a pounding heart; and she said, this isn't going to work unless you _ … _

_ unless you… _ )

"What," he breathes. His mind is full of white static; his heart pounds.

Clarence doesn't continue. He just climbs off the hood of the car, putting out his cigarette with a smooth motion of hand and heel. He thumbs his lips, pensive, not meeting Philip's stare. Unusual, for the eccentric creature; he always returns any glance Philip spares with a vengeance, as if to do otherwise would admit defeat. This time, it seems he's thrown away the pretense.

He slides off the car, standing beside his quiet companion. Up above, the stars peek through a film of grey; the clouds have yet to dissipate. And still, the blackness of the night sky is overwhelming, cloistering.

He'll drown in its inky black lungs if he stares any longer. So he doesn't.

Clarence breaks the silence, and his voice sounds like the ashes he casually discarded from his smoke. "Monkey, you may be one of the only individuals I've ever met, but I think you're one  _ interesting _ sonuvabitch when you don't hide behind that dreary old professor shtick."

Philip blinks, confused, and opens his mouth to reply, not entirely sure what he wants to say - but Clarence just chuckles, a slow, grinding sort of sound that sends shivers down his spine.  _ Nails on a chalkboard, right? _

"You say more than you think you do, and that's what's got me all in a twist. You silly billy, thinkin' you're some overanxious old fart." Clarence laughs again, popping open the driver side door. "We'll meet for lunch tomorrow, got that, monkey?"

Philip dumbly nods, unable to do much else as Clarence backs up and drives away.

He lingers outside his flat for a bit longer, unwilling to leave behind that scent of cold and smoke, that ghostly sense of warmth left behind by Clarence.

He wonders, and ponders, until his eyes begin to burn and the weight of the day drags down on his bones. Foggy, eyes dimmed, he wanders up the stairs to his flat, number  _ 356, _ and he considers phantoms living in the walls with longer histories than he's been alive.


	17. wednesday afternoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I'm on the high ridge looking down  
>  While we're evolving in it all  
> If I get back then I'll be grateful  
> Look there's a billboard on the moon_
> 
> _Let me take you this far  
>  This crossing isn't much to me  
> There's lightning in the storm clouds  
> And I'll send you them to stay_
> 
> _You got me lost in Magic City  
>  You've got me questioning it all  
> I hope that I make it home by Wednesday  
> And this Magic City lets me go_
> 
> _Magic City  
>  Magic City  
> Magic City_
> 
> _You put me up here in the penthouse  
>  And painted me in red, white and blue  
> I fill the canyons with my ego  
> Look there's a billboard on the moon_
> 
> _You got me lost in Magic City  
>  You got me questioning it all  
> I hope that I make it home by Wednesday  
> And this Magic City lets me go_
> 
> _ [Gorillaz - Magic City](https://youtu.be/ixnDm02uEeE) _

「 _ Alright, monkey, now's the moment you complain over how long it took before taking me into your arms and begging for the kiss of life! _ 」

Philip blinks, completely confused. His mouth gapes open, clicking shut as his hand retracts from where he'd been motioning to the board. None of his students seem to notice, thankfully.

He stands there, blank; did he - well, it couldn't have been anybody in the room. It sounded so close, like it was talking from the inside of his skull.

What is he talking about? He - he isn't  _ hearing _ things. Absurd. Let alone some nonsense like what he did  _ not _ hear.

He's fine. Perfectly fine.

「 _ Get up, get up! Geeze, you monkeys have such useless, floppy bodies! _ 」

His cheek twitches.

He struggles to swallow, sweat beading at his forehead. He's saying something; whatever it is, his class begins collecting their notes. In a haze, he watches them leave.

As soon as the room is empty, he half slides, half collapses against the podium, stubbornly dragging himself over to his desk where he can sit and  _ think. _

Flashes:

_ ( _ white and black floors, smeared with putrid garbage _ )-- _

He gasps awake.  _ There's a voice in my head, there's a voice in my head  _ again.

Again?!

「 _ Calm down, yeesh. Everything's… well, everything  _ will _ be fine. Just calm down, they're gonna hear you. _ 」

What? What? He presses frantic, clammy hands to his face, focusing on inhaling and exhaling. He, he thinks he knows the voice, but how-? Why-?

White flashes, again:

_ ( _ they're not outside, not yet, somehow deeper in the complex than he remembers being. or perhaps it was just much bigger than he recalls? _ ) _

He shudders. His head has fallen, papers crinkling under his chin as he grunts, stiffly propping himself up on shaking elbows. He had been  _ fine _ this morning, dreams forgotten with a hot tea and a quick breakfast - but now his limbs ache, joints screaming. Every nerve sings with weariness.

「 _ Listen to your pal, will ya?! You're gonna be just fine, quit whinin'! _ 」

_ Clarence…  _

Clarence! It can't be anyone else, but it just doesn't make sense. He wheezes through a dry throat,  _ why is he so thirsty-- _

A cool sensation fills his mouth, clumsily bubbling around his lips before sliding down his throat, an instant relief. Still no words come, but he--

_ ( _ he's haltingingly stumbling, half leaning against the dirty wall. dark and dank weighs heavily all around him; in his hand is a rusted canister, but as he turns it, he sees that there is a clear, crystalline liquid inside. perfectly preserved by the same cold that shakes his frame viciously. _ ) _

He's dropped against his desk again, clutching himself like a child. Everything burns now, every ligament and muscle jumping in uncontrollable tremours. He doesn't understand what is wrong.

( _ he's getting out he's getting out he's getting out _ )

Where is he going? He - he's not going anywhere. He's still right here. Still here.

「 _ Still there, monkey? _ 」

He nods, weakly, pathetically, face smushed to the table and chin to his chest. Nodding - to a goddamn voice in his head.

「 _ Aw, no need for any of that! Just  _ relax _. Clarence'll take care of this, just like he said he would. _ 」

Like a dial tone, a telephone hung up too soon - the voice withdraws. He sucks in a startled breath. He had recognized its presence. Why? When?

( _ why clarence? _ )

"Fucking," he grits, uselessly, hands curling into fists that grind into his desk. " _ Questions. _ "

He's quite tired of being left in the dark.

Like an answer ( _ or an acknowledgement? _ ), his vision is overwhelmed, white afterimages smearing into his eyes--

_ ( _ it, he knows it, understands now - it moves their limbs like a marionette, fast and loose and messy. but still they plod along, halting whenever their ears catch the hiss and the thump of things unearthly. their boots are coated in a thick mud of blood and dust, and they shiver uncontrollably.

they're still deep within the earth, but no longer are they trapped within the bowels of its catacombs. it whispers unintelligibly through his dry lips, licking them with a wheeze; it doesn't have a clue where they're going, but  _ he's getting out. _ that is all that matters. to either of them.

_ When did this happen? _ he doesn't know. it doesn't hear him, doesn't know he's there. distantly, he's aware of his own limbs quaking, sweating and painful - one set just barely sprawled across his desk, the other clawing their way through a labyrinth.

a sound. they freeze; it's too nearby to hide away from. not far enough away for them to dart into warm shadows. his heart hammers irregularly, fear smelling like iron in his nose.

when  _ it _ emerges from the blackness, he's stricken with double vision; is this a parody? but no - he could never be the same as  _ it _ , never. once, and then never again. the darkness gropes  _ its _ pallid form, tangling with the grotesque, bulging organs between  _ its _ naked legs.

T E L L U S Y O U R  **N A M E**

their body seizes up, jerking apart around them. he chokes back brine tears, his veins fighting to burst in the wet meat between his ears - but he can't, he  _ refuses. _ teeth turn hot in his skull, burning his lips red as he snarls wordlessly back.

**T E L L M E**

" _no, no._ " words - foreign, how they tumble from their lips. _fuck. you._ blood spurts from his mouth, more undoubtedly bubbling from his ears, his nose, trickling down his forehead. his hands convulse, gripping futilely at his heart. " _fuck. you._ "

I L L O G I C A L.

he laughs, a short, caustic mockery. "  _ I don't care. _ "

( _ it's not philip. it hates more, deeper, impossibly human in its anger. philip cannot hate with a viciousness; only a cold calculation suits him. _ )

Y O U C A N N O T B E.

"  _ so? make me 'not be', then. betcha can't. _ "

the weight of  _ its _ silence bends them, their spine cracking and popping. still, he pushes through the flooding song in their skull, through the crescendo of voices - no, a single voice, it used to know the rhythm, the pattern like a beloved, well thumbed story - they gasp, and, haltingly, he pushes himself to his feet.

_ it _ follows them, a ghost of nothing. the remnants of  _ its _ skin holds the markings of a person who hadn't been, who never was. he realizes he pities them, whoever they had been.

dried blood and nothing more.  _ it _ took the air, the scars, the muscle memory - everything, when  _ it _ swallowed them whole, unwillingly. as he continues backing up, feet swinging wildly every which way, he wonders if they at least found peace as part of  _ it. _

it hadn't been unbearable. just forever, and always. interrupted.

"  _ see? you're just as weak as the monkeys all thought. _ " he sneers. "  _ just fuck off already. no one's left. _ "

E X C E P T Y O U. E X C E P T H I M.

"  _ separatin' us? thought you were all for that sweet commune life. _ "

Y O U A R E M A K I N G A W E A K I N N U E N D O. Y O U A R E N O T H A V I N G R E L A T I O N S W I T H H I M. C E A S E I M M E D I A T E L Y.

"  _ jeeze, jeeze. can nobody take a joke round here? _ " he spreads his arms to the silence of the complex. he sighs.  _ it's _ still too fucking close for them to get away. "  _ playing the controllin' daddy card too strong, ■■■. _ "

D O N O T U S E T H A T E P I T H E T. Y O U A R E O N L Y  **O N E**

his chest rattles, and a ragged, forceful cough cuts through their damaged throat, and he senselessly tries to hold their windpipe together with burning hands. when they tear their hand away, they spatter viscera from their stained fingers.  _ Oh, that is… _

their back hits a wall. panic washes over them like ice, like a permafrost. 

_ Fuck.  _

_ yes, yes,  _ fuck.

H O W D O W E S P E A K T O Y O U, M A N K I N D? H O W A R E W E S P E A K I N G TO Y O U, S P L I N T E R?

"  _ what?!  _ " 

a thumb, pushing him beneath the surface - he's looking up, from below the water's skin, the light a kaleidoscope blistering into him. Philip lurches back, a sick feeling swirling in his gut. 

_ No, no! I need to know! Clarence! _

a nauseating whirlpool, black and bloody-- _ ) _

No one answers; he shudders against the desk, legs cramping as frustration screams dully in his bones. With a silent roar in his ears, he throws his arms asunder, kicking furiously until his shoes are caught together, and, with a numbing wrench of his foot, he pulls one of his sneakers off, the damnable thing clattering loudly in the yawning emptiness of the room.

His ankle hurts.

He's about to put his head in his hands, helpless sounds writhing in his lungs, when he realizes he still  _ sees _ .

Barely, barely - and the sounds are muffled, almost silent, but he can't see this room if he's  _ looking. _

He laughs hollowly. "You're not gonna get rid of me that easily, Clarence."

Grinning, he dives back in--

_ ( _ white, blue white of ice over his head, he'll surely drown - but he won't.

he won't, because beyond that, warped almost unrecognizably by the ice, is a face.  _ its _ face. cold, emotiveless, and watching.

_ it _ knows he's there, but as he stares back at  _ it _ , heart in his throat, something like fury growing like weeds in his chest -  _ it _ retreats. the shadows devour it slowly, welcoming  _ it _ back like a starving lover.

they shakily let out an exhale, fumbling against the wall as they try to regain their strength. the blood is gone; their nose is clear, and nothing stains their hands as they pat themselves down. he can tell it's relieved. he can tell it doesn't know he's still watching.

"  _ oh, _ " it whispers, a fragmentary, painful sound. " _ oh, holy hell. _ "

they begin moving again, but their ribcage protests as they do, despite the lack of blood and pain. he clutches it, almost desperate; a tight grip that he keeps as they move, rhythmically rubbing each too-stark bone. as if that'll help. both of them know it won't.

the only thing that'll help is if they  _ get out. _

Clarence shudders through another inhale, exhale. no more sounds of hungry creatures pierce the darkness, leaving them to trample their way unevenly through the spiralling halls.

_ Will this go on forever? An endless, circling loop, me and you - stuck here on-- _

" -- _ some kinda messed up holiday, _ " he finishes, weakly chuckling. " _ is that how it is now? no kiss for prince charming for rescuing the rotting corpse of the knight? jeeze, talk about a lousy reward. _ "

_...Not going to answer that. And no. This isn't for much longer. _

he slips, catching them against a wall. the single touch is ice cold, and they yank their hand back with a hiss. "  _...well, I promised. I'm not gonna just stop; you'll just end up a droolin', stinkin' vegetable all over again.  _ "

Philip closes his eyes. he's not dreaming, not yet, but he can feel the tide of it pulling at him already. this entire… episode was a wasted endeavor, but at least the thing called the  _ Tuurngait _ is leaving them alone. maybe.

he'll sooner die than get the answers to his pointless, hopeless questions, but he can't bear to lose this faint, split moment of coherency without  _ asking. _

_ Clarence. _

they're still stumbling along, dragging their heavy, starved body out from the pitch. "  _ hm? yes, my monkey? _ "

his heart hitches. it cracks the dam; the room begins to lap at his feet, his ankle aching and his hair cold with sweat. and still, he locks his gaze on the ice stretching so high above him, thick and protective.

_ Why? _

He doesn't get an answer before the waters rise, swallowing him whole just as the Tuurngait tried to, once before. Only this time, the waters of his own mind succeed.


	18. possessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> there's something deep in my mind i can't remember anymore  
>  not anymore  
> there's something here in my life i can't recover anymore  
> anymore_
> 
> _i take all the pieces and put them back  
>  i can't tell if i'm still on the right track  
> tell me now if i'm going crazy  
> how can my mind be so hazy_
> 
> _things won't last forever  
>  how can i remember  
> what am i suppressing  
> what am i possessing  
> i can't find a meaning  
> what if i'm just dreaming  
> what am i achieving  
> what am i believing?_
> 
> _i cannot understand anything i see anymore  
>  not anymore  
> there's something deep in my heart i cannot feel anymore  
> anymore_
> 
> _i feel like i'm breaking to pieces  
>  i can't wait til all of this eases  
> tell me now if i'm going crazy  
> how can my mind be so hazy_
> 
> _things won't last forever  
>  how can i remember  
> what am i suppressing  
> what am i possessing?_
> 
> _ [strovi - MIND DIVISION](https://youtu.be/X5PO-UFVMpA) _

He wakes up, cold on the floor, shriveled into something small beneath his desk. The humiliation of what he might look like crushes him momentarily, his mouth tastes hot and sour. Like sickness, rotting in his gums. He might be sick. Philip presses a shaking, clammy hand to his mouth, as if that'd help if he does vomit.

For a long minute, he just lays there, shivers increasing, soaking in his own sweat. When the anxiety -  _ you child, you utter child, what if someone comes in and sees you like this, get up, now! _ \- forces his hand. He struggles to crawl out from the cramped space he'd somehow wedged himself within, elbows protesting, spine biting his muscles painfully. He hauls himself up, nearly falling when he swoons, lightheaded. Thankfully, his chair is situated right behind him, welcoming him in its comfortable grasp.

Philip watches the room with empty eyes, unblinking until he flinches, scrubbing at the dry grit stuck under his eyelids. And still, he can't comprehend just how the  _ fuck _ he got here.

_ I was lecturing, I was talking - and then I saw something, heard something, and I blink and I'm  _ here.

Hands trembling, he fumbles for the key to his office. He's got a landline phone there, and with the thrumming in his chest that shows no sign of slowing or stopping, he desperately wants to call someone -  _ anyone. _ As he lurches up, swaying dizzily, he scours his mind for that  _ someone. _

( _ you used to like to say her name aloud; now you avoid it like a cursed mirror. _ )

Philip doesn't know that many people, not really. He doesn't collect phone numbers, either. Amabel is on vacation, and he doesn't want to interrupt whatever she's enjoying. Clarence - as far as he knows, Clarence doesn't have a phone. He realizes he's about to fall, and props himself up via the desk. His knees ache; his wrists pulse in time to his too-quick heartbeat. There's rust growing in his mouth, suffocating him, and he squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth to dislodge the building rot.

( _ you didn't call frequently. but she used to call you, and you used to smile when she did. _ )

Nobody, nobody to call. And it - it forces a wheeze out of him, half desperate, half distressed. Absurd scenes play out in his mind, overwhelming each other even as he tries, uselessly, to  _ think _ .

Scenario 1: he falls over and doesn't get back up. Unlikely - he refuses to just… let this  _ win. _ No, he won't just fucking pass out.

It's not even painful. ( _ a razor blade, poised carefully as it inserts into his left eye from behind _ )

He won't fall over. That won't happen.

Scenario 2: he drags himself out to the parking lot. Manages to get to the car. From there, he thinks he stocked painkillers in the glove compartment, and those will at least get him home.

Sweat trickles unpleasantly down his temple. He can feel it coagulate under his chin, and he wipes it away in disgust.

...an image rises, slowly, in the darkness of his eyelids. A sense-memory; a gentle hand in his hair, soft words. The scent of smoke, clinging to her clothes, and an empty house when she left for work.

He hasn't been ill since he was very young. He hasn't spoken to his mother in what feels like years.

He's tried, and he's gotten no response. She used to answer at least once a month. The wood of the desk creaks beneath his fingers, his whole weight pushing heavily against it.

( _ you could call her _ )

He could call her. He could try. It's not much of a detour, he could make it. He  _ can _ make it.

Philip takes a deep breath, and detaches from the safety of his desk and chair in one short motion. He grips the key to his office tightly, and, as the room grows dizzingly large and small and black and white, he sets his jaw and locks his knees.

He will  _ not _ fall. ( _ it doesn't matter except to me, and that must mean something. _ )

The halls pass by in fragments of images; his hearing is muffled, underwater. Flooded out, just like him, and he wonders if he looks like a drowned rat. If he does, there's no one who sees. 

His office appears like a ghost, afterimage burning in his retinas as he fumbles to unlock the door. The sick in his mouth has returned with a vengeance, stinking of iron and acid, but he's determined now. He'll call his mother, and she'll answer.

Whether she'll care, how she'll respond - well, he excuses himself from thinking any longer on it. That split second memory grows faint in his mind, but the sensation of concern emanating from her - he, God he just wants that. God, his heart won't stop shuddering in his chest.

He's probably shaking violently. His vision keeps jumping every which way, as if his head is quaking in fear - but he's not afraid,  _ he's not _ . There's noise in his ears, but it's empty. All of it, all of it is empty.

Philip barely sits down before he's tugging the phone to him, hands scrambling over the keys, punching in the number for the carehome. She had quite liked the place, the last time he'd spoken to her; said it reminded her of his father.

The dial tone hums and hums in his ear, as he shakes and sweats, as his unoccupied hand taps feverishly on the dark grain of his desk. An eternity, waiting; and he feels a yawning, looming mountain grow in the absence of words. When the tone clicks off, he digs his nails into the wood, absurdly wishing it had never ended.

They weren't answering before, and he doesn't know why but he doesn't particularly care to ponder it, but they're answering  _ now. _

They speak. And he stops. 

The room laughs in silence as the horror dawns on his pale, knowing face. 


	19. hometown poisons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't you long for your hometown? Memories fly far away / Bring them along / I'm jealous, I wanna join in / Don't care about qualifications, just give me / Carefully I'll consume you / Taste thorns, poison / Thank you for the meal / I've come uninvited / Hold it in your mouth / From the beginning, I've been coaxed into it all_
> 
> _Knock on my heart, an arrow in my mark / The dress suits you, constricts your neck / Wherever, whatever you like / He who's cool? who's lame? / Don't mind them, this dance is barrier free / Before fear gets to you, fly far away / Don't try to flatter / Just dream / Voraciously I'll consume you / Extend your hands, one to the other / I won't hand you over to anyone else /_  
>  _Drink til I swell / Walking in the night / A boy who's gonna disappear..._
> 
> _Please wait / The smile you had / May I not see it anymore? / If we get close to Hell, keep holding my hand / I want to keep dancing with you, our eyes fixed on one another... / Shyly I'll consume you / Drink only what you can / Swollen body staggering / Just a disappearing boy..._
> 
> _[Eve - デーモンダンストーキョ](youtu.be/BLgqyQMjd5s)_

He should've brought an umbrella, but he had thought the weather would not be so cruel as to sob over him, mocking as he himself is bereft of tears. He was right, but the light sprinkle of rain still bothers him. He'll be sopping wet by the time he gets back to the car; this breed of damp builds over time.

Philip doesn't remember what he did, what he's done, over the last few days. He knows his state of stunned confusion has been obvious with the looks Clarence gives him, with how his students mutter among themselves even during his lectures - but he can't bring himself to care overmuch. There's the grief, of course, but he's just… at a loss of what to think, of what to say.

What is there to say when you are told something you already knew, something long since past, but despite knowing it all along - you were so convinced that you didn't? What is there to do? Did you fool yourself? Were you just pretending? Why would you deny this thing, this… painful, undeniable thing?

( _ because you  _ had _ known, those nights you held the unanswering phone in your hand; you had known, but the bitterness at her usual silence let you pretend, for far longer than you should've. _ )

She's been dead for the last fourteen months. Death is not patient, and it is the final guest one shall receive. He was reassured that she died in her sleep, peacefully. Philip can't make sense of how he feels, and so - he is lost.

"I suppose you'd ask why I'm dressed like this," he finally says. His hair is getting wet. "I just didn't think it'd be worth the effort to dress up with no one else around. Societal propriety is a drag, sometimes."

Her grave isn't much to look at. A plot with a headstone, the grass well trimmed. The headstone still looks fresh. Philip nods, to nothing and to no one. "I guess you'd care, but seeing as how you're dead, I don't think it matters."

A twinge of guilt, quickly gone. Is he numb? He thinks he is. He thumbs the cotton jacket he'd thrown on, the material growing dark under the freckling might of the rain.

He looks away, down the hill where he'd parked. "Yeah, not sure what I'm doing here, Mum."

_ Mum. _ He feels childish, and swallows, uncomfortable.

"Just… I guess I'll tell you how I'm doing, before I go. We never did catch up often, did we? Should've. Maybe then you would've told me, maybe then I wouldn't be in this mess - but, somehow, I doubt anything would've changed. Should've, would've, could've; those don't do anything for anybody. Just dressed up  _ what ifs. _ "

He pauses. The sun is warm, peeking shyly through a break in the clouds. He shades his eyes, watching as the light catches and reflects among the rain droplets, a thousand brilliant stars flickering briefly, electrically, before vanishing as suddenly as they burned.

_ Burned… _

"I asked if they cremated you. Evidently you did not tell them what you told me, but I'm not bothered. In fact, I'm relieved; burning is… not a pleasant way to go." He stares at the sky, a lump forming in his throat. "Doesn't really matter if you're just a corpse, nothing living left inside."

( _ get on with it. _ )

"Clarence is moving in. He said that rent's too high where he is, wherever that is. Some high class hotel, I'd bet. So I guess I'll have a flatmate again for the first time since…" He taps his fingers, fitfully. "You know, I guess it'll be for the first time  _ ever _ ."

( _ that's a lie. _

_ he asked, and you said no disguised as a yes. he trusted you. _

_ you lie more than you think you do. _ )

"You… wouldn't have wanted to hear that, I suppose. Apologies." He grimaces, the cold from the rain beginning to numb his fingers unpleasantly. The weather won't hold for much longer, so he finally brings himself to say what he's wanted to say since he arrived. "I could never understand why you… did the things you did. Said the things you said. You cared for me - otherwise you would've gotten rid of me as soon as my father left you. You did everything you were supposed to, right?"

His shoulders tremble, just for a moment, before he reins himself back in. He still chokes on the words as he says them, a remnant of a bad swallowing habit. "So, so why did I-? Why did I feel, why  _ do _ I feel - almost relieved?"

_ Not relieved, never relieved - and he does mourn. But why this release of tension? This ease of burden? Like a weight held over his head has finally, finally, drifted away? _

He closes his eyes, his head bowing. Water trickles down his cheek, and he damns the rain -  _ damn this absent rain, damn this vestigial caregiver, and damn  _ me  _ most of all _ .

He turns to leave, but he can't. Not yet.

"I'll miss you, Mum, and all the things I never told you. I hope…"

The sun won't show its handsome face any longer; the spring shower has turned angry, storm clouds churning black and grey in the consuming expanse of sky. For an instant, it's almost like straining ice, hundreds of kilometres above him.

"I hope you're at least at peace."

He leaves the cemetery without another word. Something tells him that he'll never see this place again, but he doesn't look back.

There are too many secrets, lying beneath the grave dirt burying her, lying between them. Too many for him to ever know. Too many for her to ever forgive.


	20. paradise circus in the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's unfortunate that when we feel a storm  
>  We can't roll ourselves over cause we're uncomfortable  
> Oh well, the devil makes us sin  
> But we like it when we're spinning   
> In his grin_
> 
> _Love is like a sin, my love  
>  For the ones that feel it the most  
> Look at her with her eyes like a flame  
> She will love you like a flower  
> And never love you again_
> 
> _It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone  
>  We can't roll ourselves over when we're uncomfortable  
> Oh well, the devil makes us sin  
> But we like it when we're spinning in his grin_
> 
> _Love is like a sin, my love  
>  For the one that feels it the most  
> Look at her with her smile like a flame  
> She will love you like a flower  
> And will never love you again_
> 
> _ [Massive Attack - Paradise Circus](https://youtu.be/jEgX64n3T7g) _

_ "Do you ever feel like you're completely alone?" She's laying on her side, facing him. The warm darkness of the room drapes her form, her curly hair soft on the pillow. Her hand traces diagrams, shapes, unknown patterns on the sheets; so close to touching. He's nearly forgotten her question until she says, her voice deepening, "As if no one except  _ you _ exists, and you have to be ok with that." _

_ Philip snorts, a too loud sound in the peaceful silence. He knows he's turning red. "That's absurd. Almost sounds like a narcissistic thing to say, _____." _

_ "Don't be an ass," she says, frowning, but her hand playfully tugs at his messy hair. She moves closer, the frown disappearing into a kind smile - before turning unreadable. "I'm serious, Philip. As if the whole world is just… a faraway movie screen, and all the people pretend you're right there with them, but you're  _ not. _ " _

_ He shuffles closer to her, their faces so close he can see the flecks of blue in her hazel eyes.  _

_ "Maybe. But does that matter? You're here," and he clasps their hands together, lightly brushing their fingers to his lips. "I'm here. So don't worry about all that, alright?" _

_ The warm quiet swells and grows between them. He's content being so close to them, content with the way their hand feels in his. _

_ But when he opens his eyes, only then realizing he'd closed them, they still look… discontented. A weight too heavy to bear alone rests on their back, and he knows they want him to  _ hear _ \- but they don't say anything, nothing at all. They lie on their side, their hair a tangled, beautiful mess. He reaches out, letting their hand fall against his neck, and thumbs their cheek. He's trying, he really is, but the lines under their eyes won't go away. "You ok, _____?" _

_ They bite their lip, not meeting his gaze. "It's alright, Philip."  _

I knew you wouldn't understand.

_ Philip is stung, but he refuses to let it show. His fingers sweep into their curls, resting behind their ear. 'Is this ok?' is what he wants to say, but the words sit dull and dead at the back of his throat. Instead he says, dry and monotone, "I wish you'd open up to me. Haven't I done the same?"  _

Am I not enough?

_ She doesn't answer this time, simply closing her eyes and letting his hand remain pressed against their neck. Their jugular hums beneath his fingertips, a steady beat - so different from the way he knows they won't move closer, not an inch. _

_ That thrumming, the thrumming of her heartbeat, echoes in his head. His head dips, and they let him meet them in the middle; their foreheads touch, just a fragmentary sensation-- _

_ Gone. They're gone, and they're not coming back. _

_ Cold.  _

_ The pulse of their life is cold - empty of them. He grasps futilely at nothing at all, panic a slow, rattling sound in his chest - and he opens his eyes. _

_ 「 _ Heya, Philip. _ 」 _

_ He blinks, stunned, a cry of surprise high in his throat and already beginning to scramble back, but hands, broad,  _ familiar  _ hands grip him tightly and pull him in close. _

_ Clarence's eyes are suns burning to their deaths, bleeding sluggishly and brilliantly, brilliantly blue.「 _ No need to be so afraid, monkey! It's just me. Not tired of this whole rigamole yet, eh? _ 」 _

_ "What - how?" He manages to stutter out, all too aware of his nudity beneath the thin sheets and how close they are. The other's chest touches his with each synchronized breath they take, the touch raw and bizarre. "What - what the fuck are you doing?" _

_ He doesn't answer, not at first. Instead, he closes those spotlight eyes, shadows swimming in to fill up the emptiness left behind. Clarence's features are unintelligible as they always are, but his hair is a static mess; like the boughs of a willow, the strands drape thickly everywhich way over the pillow, spilling into Philip's space. He finds himself relaxing, each of their shared exhales and inhales draining him of confusion, and, unknowingly, he slides his hand up to weave through the glossy locks of hair. _

_ An abrupt laugh.「 _ You really are a hopeless, romantic old fool. What's next? A fucking candlelit dinner by the sea? _ 」 _

_ Philip doesn't take offense; he's begun to learn that these moments where he's certain he was meant to be hurt are simply performative. There's a trace of tension in his voice; no doubt he thinks himself clever, hiding behind wounding words as he does. So Philip smiles, and lets Clarence's still pulling grasp tug him closer. _

_ "What are you doing, Clarence?" Clarence's face is akin to tar, to pitch; warm, but not unpleasantly so. He feels like his fingertips are sinking into the other's flesh. "What are you doing?" _

_ 「 _ Stop repeating yourself. And I'll have you know I'm no voyeur; this is no fault of mine, that we can both be certain of. _ 」 _

_ "Hah. It's an old memory. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." _

_ 「 _ You're really so certain of that, monkey? Monkey, monkey, monkey - even with someone like me calling you something like that, you have too much confidence in yourself. _ 」 _

_ He opens his eyes. "Alright, you have a point - but did you know him?" _

_ That shuts the other up, his eyes blown wide apart. Stunningly, beautifully blue. Sometimes Philip wishes Clarence was human, if only so that moments like these could be  _ real.

_ 「 _ You really think you knew him? _ 」the creature, dressed in a vivid, all too eager costume of humanity, says. He pushes forward, their faces not even inches apart - yet there is no scent, and the inky darkness does not dissipate from his mask.「 _ You think you did, you really do! Oh, but this is just sad. My monkey, you're so sad. _ 」 _

_ Philip flinches away, and Clarence lets him.「 _ Pathetic. And I can't even say  _ good riddance _ because oh boy, that's gotta hurt. _ 」 _

_ "You--" Stop. He has to stop. Almost vindictively, he grabs at Clarence's hair, snarling. "You don't have any right to say that." _

_ 「 _ I have more of a right to that than you think I do. _ 」 _

_ He growls, a furious sound that screams louder in his pounding head than in the quaking exhale he makes. No longer minding his bare legs, he pushes Clarence onto his back. When the other tries to struggle, he digs his knees into its sides. "Spit it out, then! I knew her, I fucking knew her--!" _

( _ falling into hysterics this easily? hysterical, i really mean it. _ )

_ 「 _ Philip-- _ 」 _

_ "No! I knew her! I  _ cared _ \- I just--" _

_ He stops. _

_ Trembles. Clarence's eyes, so bloody-blue, ignite his features; a wide mouth, teeth harsh as tombstones and his lips pale, dry and thin. His nose bleeds lazily, black and stark against his sick white skin. His eyelids are open too-wide, pupils consuming Philip in the swallowing emptiness beyond the lens of his eyes. _

_ Alien. Completely alien.  _

( _ he's sick, he's so sick - but who are we talking about again? _ )

_ But he's listing forward, closer and closer. His heart pounds, a dying creature held prisoner within his ribcage, a mockery of the cold blooming in his mind. _

_ 「 _ You cared? _ 」a voice; a croak.「 _ If you cared, well - you would've understood, right? She knew that. You knew that. Why not just let it go? It was over, even then. _ 」 _

_ He swallows, and it shouldn't be an admission of guilt - but it is. Their words don't echo so much as whisper; a million truths he could not commit to memory. Was he wrong in what he did? He refuses to believe he was. _

_ 「 _ Monkey, my dear silly Philip - does that matter? They got what they needed, and although you're still clinging like a limpet to the idea, you did get what you wanted. Just not the way you wanted it. _ 」 _

_ The sheets rustle around them, like a gunshot in the silence. He braces himself over the other, his muscles aching furiously in protest. Childish. Has he always been this way? _

_ Clarence laughs, short but genuine.「 _ How else do ya think I'm here, like this? You're one peculiar bastard, silly-billy. Always hidin' away those baby teeth of yours, as if no one'll notice if you just stay quiet. But everyone notices, monkey, sooner or later. _ 」  _

_ Sooner or later. That is the truth of the matter, isn't it? _

_ 「 _ Not like that. _ 」Clarence's absurdly thin, absurdly sick face… wilts.「 _ Not just yet, monkey. I'm not done yet. _ 」 _

_ Not yet. Alright. _

_ Philip takes a deep breath, and for a split moment he swears there's something there, something of smoke and seawater stuck fast to Clarence's skin. As his head falls to rest under the other's, tucked neatly into the dip of the other's collarbone, he wonders. _

_ The ice plunges him into the deep, something warm and long ago opening up below him. _


	21. we've got it handled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Waking from napping with a bad taste in your mouth  
>  Wishing you were sleeping, you don't want to leave the house  
> Dripping from your dreaming of a habit you renounced  
> Get out of bed, please go away, get out, get out, get out_
> 
> _You see a liar in the mirror he's sneering in that way  
>  That makes you feel unsafe, insane and you hate to see his face  
> You punch the mirror to shut him up but he won't go away  
> He just multiplies, intensifies, he's twenty tiny blades_
> 
> _Is it getting better?  
>  It's really getting worse  
> I'll give a thousand apologies for a thousand hurts!  
> The forest is on fire but we're gonna let it burn  
> We're controlling it  
> We've got it handled  
> Thanks for your concern_
> 
> _ [Andrew Jihad Jackson - Forest Fire](https://youtu.be/wG3urHx9mB8) _

"You don't really believe that, do you? You realize it sounds ridiculous."

"Of course it does, but that doesn't make it any less true."

"Pseudoscience, is what I think you'd call it."

"That too, but only if you insist others accept it - and I'm not. It's truth to me, and that's what matters."

Philip rubs his eyes, a wave of exhaustion falling over him. The pressure of his fingers causes starbursts of light in the darkness behind his eyelids, and he contemplates interrupting their discussion. His students rarely are this talkative, however, and he finds himself… curious.

It'll be a nice distraction, at least, from the miasma that licks, ever present, at his heels.

"Really, though? Souls? As in -- god, don't make me say it."

"Everything and everyone has one, and everyone and everything should be treated with dignity and respect! That's what I think, don't know about Richard."

"Oh, shut up. It's not that that I care about. Ignore the idiot, he doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Hey!"

"What  _ are _ you talking about, then? Souls, as a concept, are largely a religious one. I know for a  _ fact _ you're an atheist."

"So what? Just because I don't believe in any sort of god doesn't mean I can't be spiritual. But that's not what I am, either; if you want spiritual, talk to the aforementioned idiot."

Said 'idiot' huffs, clearly annoyed at his nickname. But Philip isn't paying him any mind; no, even as he eavesdrops in on the little conversation, his thoughts race. Something's off, something's… not right. The ambiguity of this sense of unease perplexes him.

"As for me - I think of it in a more…  _ metaphorical _ sense."

"A philosophical take? Not what I expected, Richard. Aren't you failing that class?"

"I'm pretty damn sure the professor's failing me on purpose. But yeah, I guess you can take it like that. Souls are just a way for people to encapsulate what they experience in their individual lives, in the secret spaces of their skulls. It doesn't matter if 'everything has a soul,' because souls are just… ways to express certain intangible concepts."

"It's too difficult to try to internalize the science behind how we think and feel, and so things like souls are preferable?"

"Right, right, exactly! Souls  _ can _ have religious meaning, they  _ can _ have spiritual meaning - but to me, they're true because they  _ don't. _ Human life, when I think of it in terms of souls - it just seems a lot more… grand, don't you think?"

"I guess, but you also sound cheesy as hell."

"So what! Think about it - in an internal struggle, what is a person fighting against? The impulses in their brain, the things they've been taught, the hormonal chemicals they are doused with by their bodies. A soul is the collective of all those conflicting emotions and more."

_ Collective… but isn't-- _

"--Isn't that supposed to be all hand in hand hippy stuff?" A scoff. "A collective isn't at war with itself. Humans are just egotistical for thinking themselves as a battlefield, when the whole planet is a lot more important than whatever's fucked up inside their heads. A collective is the effort to unify against all that, not a single pointless individual."

_ Something's wrong, something's wrong.  _ Philip clenches his jaw, his teeth tasting foul.

"Would you let me finish?" Comes the snappy reply. Defensive, he continues, "Souls  _ are _ a collective, in a sense. Nobody's completely at peace with themselves, I refuse to believe that. Everyone's got secrets, and those  _ matter. _ Maybe more than the whole bloody world, who knows!"

Watching. Something's watching, a lazy eye and a thousand hands, disappearing as they turn fingers through his hair. He shivers, pushing back the urge to vomit, and the students forge onwards - their voices low, a drone he can't shut his ears to.

"...What if someone's…  _ soul, _ as you define it - what if a piece of it got broken off? Is it a soul if it's just some useless  _ splinter-- _ "

( _ his head - it pounds. oh, his head-- _ )

"--of a collective whole? What is it then?"

A movement, seen through eyes that are bleeding black, pulsing with the presence leering so close to him and yet, so far away. One of the students -  _ richard _ \- rubs his jaw, his coat sleeve unpleasantly dark against his sickly pallor.

"Well, I guess that it would depend on you. It can't tell you what to think, now can it? Maybe it'll say what it is, but  _ you're  _ the one with the words in your mouth, the actions like a dagger in your palm." His voice sounds  _ wrong. _ Like an echo, twisted back on itself and made dead for it. Philip can feel sweat dampen his hair, and his world is a dizzy array of nothing around him.

God, he wishes for normalcy. He wishes he wasn't like this, wasn't doing this. He doesn't know what  _ this _ is, and when he blinks and his ears thrum, he forgets the thought.

"There's no telling what something is."

_ A strange, creaking sound; like wind through unfound ruins. _

"What will matter is how you react. Do you treat it with cruelty? With indifference, or with magnanimity? What do you do, when you are questioned? Do you hunt and destroy the source, or do you let your eyes linger, your thoughts wander, and happen upon some answer of your own devicing?"

_ Enough. Enough. I've had enough. _

"All I'm saying is, this just goes to show that more things have that defining energy about them than you'd think, and that your argument that the internal struggle of a person, each part of them changing and adapting, isn't important - that's a load of--"

"Best leave those discussions outside of my class, Mr. Brookes."

The thing churns, fog and malicious in the space of his lungs - a brief pressure - and then it vanishes, just as the student's eyes soften under his gaze.

"Aw, Prof, I just--"

He shakes his head, more to clear it than to reprimand Mr. Richard Brookes, but the student hushes up easily enough, eyes downcast. Philip feels a twinge of guilt, but the memory of the alien words, spoken so softly, so calmly, so monotonously - yes, he's alright with the action. There is no remorse as he withdraws from the group, and begins to organize the notes left at the podium and desk from his last lecture.

The rest of the class floods in soon afterward, and the lecture proceeds as per usual. Philip calms his racing heart, pausing only to chide himself on his jitters. There’s no reason why he was so…  _ disturbed  _ by the small study group’s argument, and the issue has been put to bed. There is no reason the back of his shirt collar is sticking unpleasantly to his neck, no reason he has to clear his throat several times after stuttering unnaturally.

Still, the words circle in his head, in and out, over and under his churning mass of scattered thoughts.  _ ‘What’s inside a person’s skull? All alone, what value do the hidden things they create behind unreadable eyelids hold?’ _ Words never spoken, but they are birthed from the spaces in between. He finds himself wishing, absurdly, that he could ask Clarence.

He scoffs to himself, hiding it behind a raised arm and a spiel on gravitational formulae. Clarence would argue that such things are worthless, without merit, until he spins some fantastical analogy that exposes his fallacies. It’s happened enough that Philip almost finds it endearingly amusing; each time, they wind up agreeing on something neither of them had argued for.

For a split moment, he shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath; he imagines it. The scene almost hums around him, vibrant and vivid: Clarence, his legs splayed rudely across the couch, having forced Philip to sit in the armchair instead. His jacket collar is propped up, ridiculously calling forth images of foolhardy youth, stealing cigarettes and beer from a local drug store - straight out of a movie, one with low ratings but holding a special place in Philip's heart. 

( _ punk greasers with black hair, pretty girls with white teeth. a heart as big as the soul, she said, and he answered with a gentleness he shouldn't have had. _ )

He'd lean forward, all casual like; a wry smirk on his smoke-and-mirrors face. He'd say something lightly cruel, just slightly true, something like--

"Professor? Sir?"

He blinks aware, swallowing hard, abrupt. The light is a blister, pressed numbly until it throbs.

"Sir, are you alright?"

He grunts, frustration overwhelmingly bitter in his mouth. "Yes, I'm fine. What do you want?"

The student is taken aback, bewilderment spreading across their face. He glances around the lecture room, realizing that the class has ended; two hours, gone.

( _ gone inside your own head, sand of glass fallen through your weak, trembling hands. _ )

"N-nothing, sir," the student says. "Just, you were… staring into space, sir."

"Don't call me sir so much, kid," he replies. "And thank you. You can go now."

They scurry out before he can say anything else, which is really all for the better because his mouth tastes like rancid, bitter chocolate. A very strange flavour, and it makes him feel dizzy, his words scrambled in the crevices of his molars. Unpleasant, indeed.

He massages his jaw, the ache in his teeth settling at the rhythmic pressure. He's gathered his bookbag and put away his papers, the room all neat and tidy within moments, and hardly spares a look back as he bustles out.

No more classes for the day; he just isn't instructing much, lately. His schedule is rather empty, now that his latest paper has been published to quiet acceptance. Amabel has come back from her little break with her partner, red cheeked and smiling, but he dismisses thoughts of her company.

_ Clarence? _

No. No, he spends… too much time in the eccentric man's company already. The move in took no time at all, and Clarence settled into Philip's routine easily enough. That alone makes him uneasy, but the other treats it all like a game; one in which he incessantly bothers Philip whenever there's a too long stretch of quiet in the flat. 

He drags Philip out, too, sometimes physically so - to the park, where they stare altogether too long at the sky; the beach, where Clarence chain-smokes and prods and prods until Philip spills the latest ideas he's got knocking about in his head or the latest rumours he's overheard; the diner, where the waitress smiles her empty smile and they pretend their voices don't echo hollowly as they discuss the latest movie Clarence forced them to watch some late night previous.

The violent moments… Philip hasn't forgotten them. It seems whatevers sets Clarence off happens rarely, and… it's certainly faded quite a bit since the beginning, Philip realizes. He hums under his breath, and pauses at the opening of the halls out into the courtyard.

Further out, there's the parking lot, his car. But staining the distance in between is the light of late winter sun through dense, silent clouds. An overcast day, bleeding an overbright blue.

He hasn't thought of Clarence's moments of violence much, even when they happened. ( _ blood, dyed black in the murky dimness - but who's is it? who bled it, and who  _ bled _ it? _ )

_ They never were unjustified. Just… unexplained. _

He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath; the air smells clear, almost of petrichor, despite the previous months of chill, wet weather. 

_ Did they ever happen at all? You have to stretch your memory to recall the first instance, the second outburst-- _

When he opens his eyes, there's a stranger standing beside him, watching him. Its eyes feel unnatural, penetrating through his clothes, snagging beneath his skin, his flesh - he has to swallow bile around his sudden hyperawareness of its gaze.

"Phillip La Fresque?" The man - the  _ creature _ says. It draws out his name, and he swears he can feel the convulsions of a massive throat squeezing his body, trying to swallow him down.

Its eyes are  _ wrong. _ There is no other way he can say it - like a goat's, perhaps, but not at all like one. They twitch, in its deeply set eye sockets, eyelids curled tightly to its skull.  _ Wrong, they're wrong. _

He folds his arms, clenching his hands and unintentionally hunching his shoulders. _The position of an animal, cornered._ _By what?_ He can't tear himself away. Can't stop staring at it.

It seems to  _ suggest, _ yes, only that -  _ suggest _ a smile. "Phil-lip, Yes, It is you."

The more it speaks, the more  _ normal _ it sounds. Philip is not comforted at all by that.

"Yes, Philip," it continues. He twitches; there's something moving, twisting about in its right eye. "I have been looking for you. Searching for you, in fact."

It hadn't moved at all, yet it is gripping his hand, his white knuckles disappearing in its long, bony fingers. Each vein visibly pulses with thick black blood, spider webs across its bones. "I need to speak with you, Philip. Time is short, and you still hold much over me."

"W-what?" Philip manages, but his protest is too late - he blinks, and they're not where they were. "How--"

"Come," it says, and it pulls him to sit across from it, the familiar red diner seat welcoming him. The diner is warm, and his fingers sing at the change in temperature. "There is much to be said to you, Philip. It is true that I had not foreseen this Curiousity, but what must be spoken will be spoken."

He can't find it within himself to argue, to pull his hands away from its dead grip. Its hands are at once sandpaper and stale air against his flesh, disturbing him even more. As it stares at him, as its voice -  _ voices, voices, it has more than one, more than many  _ \- reverberates in his skull, he realizes it's waiting for his reply.

How polite. "What - what do you want to talk about? Why--"

His mouth grows numb and cold. The room disappears around them, if it was ever even there, and he feels adrift, and he feels blind.

"No questions of  _ whys, _ Philip LaFresque. You are still too weak to understand. No answer you receive now will ever be satisfying; none of the beings part of Mankind will ever be satisfied, and you are no different."

No eyes, no eyes -  _ what have you done? _

"Or… perhaps you are. Or you will be. And what will you do then, Philip LaFresque? Your mind is sick with the actions you alone have committed. My peace depends on you alone, but your peace depends on no one."

A face flickers, lingers; unidentifiable, features inexplicably blank, devoid of all characteristics of an individual, but he knows it. There is something in his mouth. The places where his eyes used to be are full of water; there is something in his mouth.

Words bleed through. Meaning, intent; it all bleeds the same, meat and pulp made the same under the weight of a heavy hand.

"Do you understand, Philip LaFresque? I am vulnerable in a way you cannot understand. What you have seen, what you have learned - will you not have mercy in your heart? Will you not keep this last piece of your flawed humanity?"

_ How -  _ and Philip, he has no tongue but he has the Words in his mind now, a differenttimedifferentplace that it  _ knew _ , that it had  _ seen _ , and he knows with a growing black rage in the pit of his stomach that all of this, all of it, was preventable. From the start, it knew its choices, and it chose with clarity Mankind did not hold.  _ How dare you. _

What he feels, in this moment, blind and trapped somewhere between comprehension and incoherency, is indescribable. The Words in his mind, that he's caught there like poisonous moths in his palms, are not his own; his whole  _ being _ crawls, disgusted. Repulsed. He is not one for regret nor remorse; he longs for simplicity, for something conclusive, but just as ( _ dark hair, eyes that drown him _ ) memories flit by in his head, he knows he truly cares not for his own mistakes.

Let him stumble. Let him fall.

_ How dare you; you, with all your ability, are nothing. _

_ Nothing. _

"You will make your choice. They have long since made theirs; I did not falter in the face of their invasion, but you are not the same as them."

Revulsion.

( _ The dim halflight of the evening sun through dirty glass. The diner is warm. Too warm; sweat collects at his temples. Across from him, it is so very still, so very calm. It is eyeless, its many palms upraised, and it is staring into him, but it cannot see him. _

_ His eyes, his eyes, the eyes he does not have, the eyes he gave himself, bubble thickly, dripping slothily down his face. There is a person, a not-person, across from him. With drawn together hands; with faint, thin hair. With a nose too sharp and narrow; with indeterminate gender. _

_ It's not there. It's not there. There is someone else - there are many - _ )

"A last few parting words, Philip LaFresque."

Fingers; they lay across his forehead. They linger, an empty touch full to bursting with ravenous hunger.  _ The sensation of teeth and a wet, weeping throat. _

"The splinter is naught but a shade; more human than he believes, but less than the cup to hold your water, to fulfill your thirst. Do not trade secrets with an empty space."

"If you are to make such an error in all your Human ways - you will not live long enough to regret it."

With that, Philip blinks - and he is alone.

With the soft prickling at the back of his head, dryness creaking at the back of his throat, he knows he is not, not truly. Anger still burns inside him, causing his hands to shake and clench and unclench against the tabletop, and the indescribable feeling still rattles apart in his lungs.

And yet, all that he can think, staring down at his hands, is  _ how dare you. _

* * *

( _ later - and his mind won't keep it fresh. or it can't. _

_ what he can recall, instead, is this:  _ walking, a plastic moon sitting dully in the canvas of the sky. A hand gripping his shoulder, too tight. the being is not strange nor alien; it just  _ is. _ he will watch it from the corners of his eyes, wondering and waiting, its placid expression dogmatic in its confidence. he listens not to the silence that surrounds them, the world shifting with effort - and they no longer walk beneath a moonlit sky, instead sitting in a diner. 

The diner.

_ what are you doing, _ it says without speaking, but it doesn't say that at all.  _ will you stop? I have given you your answers. _

he doesn't reply. he knows the questions, can feel them pressed tight to his skin, but all the same his thoughts are a composing heap of dalliances; without language. he cannot speak, for nothing will be said, his mind caught in strings of light and baubles of scent.

_ you would do well expulsing the splinter, _ the thing says, its face drawn out of shadow and fluorescent light.  _ keeping it will only cause this self affliction to fester and grow feverish, an infected pustulence, slow to burst but throbbing for a bloodletting. _

_ and besides that - i want no part of you, anywhere near any part of me. _

his head pounds, a distant sound. a reorganization of his thoughts, swift and decisive; this is not a person he is speaking to,  _ that _ he has known from the beginning. its words, acerbic and sharp as needles, only succeed at making him scoff. he is dismissive; this apparition, this  _ echo, _ has no business telling him who to associate with.

it cocks its head, the bones of its cheeks like knives, barely hidden by thinning hair that turns white and grey and ginger all at once.  _ this will only end in punishment. _ )

( _ he will turn these false memories, these recollections that are merely second hand tellings of a far away reality, and he'll ponder their necessity. _

_ for what punishment is there for a wrong uncommitted? for a wandering mind, what shall the blade carve into its wrists? _

_ he closes his eyes, and recalls someone familiar in its unfamiliarity, and an association he does not desire to shrink away from. _ )


	22. if i count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hung pictures of patron saints up on my wall  
>  To remind me that I am a fool  
> Tell me where I came from, what I will always be  
> Just a spoiled little kid, went to Catholic school_
> 
> _When I am dead, I won’t join their ranks  
>  Because they are both holy and free  
> I'm in Ohio, satanic and chained up  
> And until the end, that’s how it’ll be_
> 
> _I said, "Make me love myself,  
>  So that I might love you,"  
> Don’t make me a liar, 'cause I swear to God  
> When I said it, I thought it was true_
> 
> _Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you  
>  He’s got his own things to deal with  
> There’s really just one thing that we have in common  
> Neither of us will be missed_
> 
> _Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway  
>  You always said how you loved dogs  
> I don’t know if I count, but I'm trying my best  
> When I'm howling and barking these songs_
> 
> _ [Lincoln - Saint Bernard](https://youtu.be/ZJB137yGotw) _

Philip sometimes wonders where he picked up this habit; he lingers, when he senses someone inside a room, and listens intently to the individuals therein. He is not nervous, or afraid; maybe he's cautious, or curious, but he's not sure. Regardless of whether it's a bad habit or not, it lets him overhear conversations both mundane and intriguing.

This one lands somewhere in the middle.

"You can't ignore it." Amabel's voice is quiet and still, unemotive as it trickles from the cracked open door. Philip raises a hand, trailing his fingers down beside the doorknob. "This isn't right. Not after all that you've done."

"Don't pretend you're some saint in this mess," snarls someone else - irritable, gruff. "It's not like you've been doing anything to help. At least  _ I _ do something worthwhile, unlike  _ you, _ off schmoozing with your hubby-bubby. Blah,  _ gross. _ "

Clarence? What's Clarence doing here - alone, with Amabel? As far as he knew, the two aren't close - so what's changed?

"I can't  _ do _ anything, you damn - ugh, you're exhausting."

"What? What'd I say? Just pointin' out the truth, sweetheart."

Amabel sighs. "Can't you at least - I don't know.  _ Mention  _ it to him? It's just getting worse, you know. Leaving him in the dark is going to make everything so much more difficult when it all falls apart. I'm not asking for a lot, Clarence."

"Weren't you askin' I keep his brain screwed on straight, just so you could, what,  _ indulge? _ " Clarence leans forward, unseen, but the layers he wears outside the flat rustle tellingly. He hisses, "And now that you've had your fun, you want me to stop? Just like that? Look, lady, I don't know what rat poison you've gone off and snorted today, but no. Not happening."

_ are you talking about me? what do you mean?  _ Philip is overheated; he palms his forehead, his fingers clammy against his sweaty temples. Closing his eyes, he swallows a cough, a sigh; hearing them fight is disorientating. As if they're not supposed to be in the same room.

( _ not like this. _ )

Bizarre and out of place; he feels sick.

Clarence keeps going, a steady flow of vitriol that Philip almost wishes he could see. "No. No little miss-monkey is gonna tell ol' Clarence what's right, what's wrong,  _ or _ what stupid cockeyed bullshit he should be doin'. What kinda moron do you take me for, you dumb  _ bitch-- _ "

It's at those words that Philip's had enough. He  _ loudly _ opens the door, a fervour of tightly controlled anger roiling behind his teeth, but the sight of them -  _ clarence, cloudy eyes alight in a similar fervent rage, and amabel, expression breathlessly surprised but calm  _ \- stills his speech. He drops his hand from the doorknob, and settles, tongue numb and flat in his mouth. "I… was looking for you two."

Amabel smiles, as if moments before she hadn't been condescended to, hadn't been about to be cussed out for a good hour. Whether she's bothered and hiding it behind a wistful look - he can't tell. She's talented like that. "I was just chatting with Clarence here, catching up and all that."

"Yeah, sure, shooting the shit." Clarence enunciates every word, his expression black like a storm cloud. With his teeth grit like that, and his fingers twitching, fidgeting - he's craving a cigarette. "Whatcha want, monkey?"

"I did tell you it's a bad habit to pick up," Philip says, ignoring the question. "It's making you irritable."

( _ willful blindness; it's a charming waltz, until you stumble over a lie. _ )

"Fuck off," Clarence grumbles, already guessing at what Philip referred to, his hand clenching and unclenching. "Jeeze."

Philip smiles, small and then gone. "I think I must've run into someone you know. You've never mentioned any family, have you?"

"What? No."

"Are you sure? I ran into someone yesterday, had a nice chat over coffee," he says. ( _ no, no you did not. will you stop? _ ) He pauses, a spike of pain lancing his left eye, the beginnings of yet another migraine. "I think you must've been mentioned, at some point."

"A relative?" Amabel interjects, lighthearted. "Clarence, are you hiding an embarrassing aunt or two?"

"No!"

Philip laughs, his heart easing. "I think they must've had some relation to you, you definitely look similar! And yeah, now that I'm remembering the whole thing - they  _ did _ talk about you."

"Did Clarence's parent give you the shovel talk?!" Amabel chuckles at Philip's abrupt blush. "Sounds like you two have a lot to catch up on yourselves! I'll just exit stage left, then."

She turns to leave, but as she's passing Clarence, she pauses to whisper something to him. Whatever it is provokes a vivid frenzy of different expressions on his face, but before he can respond she's already left him behind.

She does leave Philip with a charming, warm smile, and a whisper of  _ we'll talk later. _ From the looks of it, she enjoyed her time with Red. He's glad of that; they're an odd couple, and he's still not sure if they'll last.

"What's this about a relative, my little monkey man?" Clarence sneers, drawing out a cigarette and ignoring Philip's responding scowl. "What? Chicks don't like smoke, and I'm cravin' it."

"Stop talking like that. You're just being obstinate."

Clarence lights up with a dead eyed stare. "Obnoxious, you mean. And yeah, you've caught me, but I get points for not blowin' smoke into her face, right?"

He sighs. "Sure, whatever you say, Clarence. But yes; pretty sure they were your father? Didn't know you even had one. Was pretty certain you just spawned out of the ground, fully formed."

Clarence guffaws, nearly spitting out his smoke as he slaps his knee, tears in his eyes. He leans back, slumping into a nearby chair in an over exaggerated fall, his shoulders bouncing up and down. Philip can feel his face growing hot, uncomfortable and ( _ delighted _ ) embarrassed all at once, and he tries for an awkward smile as he joins the other in a chair beside him. 

The room they're in isn't anything to write home about; mostly empty, a forgotten little office with boxes full of papers that should've been discarded a century ago. It's quiet, though, and Clarence's laugh fills it easily enough.

"That," Clarence finally wheezes out, wiping tears from his eyes, "Must be the funniest damn thing you've ever said to me. And you've said a  _ lot. _ You ever notice that, monkey? With how much ridiculous bullshit you spout, you should be fined."

Philip shrugs, his shoulder brushing Clarence's. "It's not that funny. You just like to laugh."

"Maybe." He waits a beat, then says, "You sure you met my… father?" 

He says it like a taboo word, all secrets and silence in the face of something harsh and delicate all at once. Philip finds himself sympathizing, even as he's all too aware of their differences.

( _ look into the mirror, and who do you see? maybe your eyes are your mother's, maybe the scrapes on your palms are hers as well, but who is it that you see in the shape of your nose, your mouth? your hair, your mother says, was your father's. was? but no longer? you look into the mirror and don't know who you see, looking back at you. _ )

Philip shakes his head, pushing away old thoughts. "Must've been. To be honest, I'd rather not meet them again."

Clarence snorts. "Yeah, I bet." He sounds… unhappy. Yes, decidedly unhappy. "I - I don't know them at all, anymore. I  _ did _ tell them to piss off, but I guess they just--"

He cuts himself off, taking a furious drag of his cigarette. The smoke hangs heavy in the air, clouding thickly in the small space, but Philip is unbothered by it. He's distracted. He's caught up in the conflicted face Clarence wears, all frowns and pensive lines, hair black and frizzing with agitation. 

The silence is like the exhale of Clarence's newfound habit, but somehow more difficult to bear. Philip doesn't notice himself touching his companion's arm, the flesh beneath his palm both cold and hot. "You know nothing they say will change anything, right? I'm not going off anywhere."

"You--" Clarence turns to him, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing. Whatever he sees confuses him, and he looks down at his sprawled legs. "Yeah. Yeah, ok. Ok."

They sit in silence for a few strangled moments, Philip still with his hand on Clarence's arm, watching him smoke. He looks so blank, as if stunned and relieved and consternated, all tied into a complex, anxious knot.

_ One he wishes he could untangle. _

When Philip sighs, Clarence at last meets his gaze. His eyes blossom; and the room, so small, so dark, becomes a movement around those torchlights. They cut, and he's too close, far and away and too close, they are scathing as they ease him. There are things under his skin, under his bones, that he cannot see - but they can.

They blink, slow, like a cat. "Lookit us - two peas in a pod, eh? Daddy issues galore. But you're gonna be a good little monkey. Are you sure you can keep that promise, Philip?"

He can't speak, he can't-- "Yes," he's saying, because he is. "Yes, I will, Clarence."

Clarence looks back at him. Those round eyes glimmer in the darkness -  _ smoke and mirrors. _ "Good."

* * *

Always an  _ after _ , right? After, after, after. Sound it round in circles in your head, til it's lost all meaning and has become just another pointless vocalization.

Philip leaves without another word, gets home, and takes a nap. He doesn't wake when Clarence comes back. His dreams are noise and colour and nothing else.

_ good, _ he had said, with the strangest, most alien eyes that Philip has ever seen. But that's wrong, isn't it? He's seen those eyes before, many times.

He'll keep his promise. It's not a matter of choice, or even of understanding.


	23. set sail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These hands of mine were clumsy, not clever  
>  And I tried to do the best that I could  
> But try as I might I couldn't bring myself to hold you_
> 
> _It’s a secret I keep tucked inside my chest  
>  With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful  
> On some level I think I always understood  
> That a ship could never really love an anchor  
> So I did the only thing that I could  
> And severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbor_
> 
> _I am selfish, I am broken, I am cruel  
>  I am all the things they might have said to you  
> Do you ever think of me and my two hands  
> And wondered why they never soothed your fevers  
> And wondered why they never held you gently  
> And wondered why they never had the chance to lose you...?_
> 
> _ [The Crane Wives - Never Love an Anchor](https://youtu.be/Y07xArvIvjw) _

Amabel doesn't hold classes anymore. She's an advisor of sorts, now, keeping to herself and her own studies. She's extraordinarily sharp, too, making her one of the best researchers Philip's ever worked with. Today, she asked to meet with him; for what reason is unclear, but he thinks it's something serious.

Something personal.

She looks up and smiles when she sees him. Strange, how she's always doing that - like she feels vulnerable without delicately curving her lips, her eyes crinkling. She's never lying; just… obfuscating the truth. Philip doesn't mind it nearly as much as she thinks he does. ( _ although you realize now that someone else rarely holds back their frustration at her choice in armour. _ )

"Philip," she greets him, leaving her keyboard to the side. "Please, sit. How've you been?"

When she doesn't make any sign of saying more, Philip says, "Ah, well. You know. Clarence whines for attention, students struggle with new topics. Keeping up with the new papers, the usual. You?"

"Same as you, although minus your flatmate and students, toss in office politics and late night studying - oh, and Red, I suppose, but he's more of a stress reliever than a stressor." She chuckles. "Now that I've said all that, I guess it's not really all the same, is it?"

"I'm sure you're handling it a great deal more gracefully than I am," admits Philip. He rubs his temples and sighs. "Suppose I'm a bit of a stereotype, compared to you. Falling apart at the slightest hint of stress…"

She frowns, gesturing vaguely. "No, of course not. You're made of sterner stuff than you think, Philip. A-anyway - this is why I wanted to talk to you today. It's not right, the way things have been going."

Philip squints at her.

"Don't look at me like that! Something's wrong, you  _ know _ that. Tell me everything's fine. You couldn't lie to save your life, I'll be able to tell if you do."

...And he knows what she means. He knows, he can't deny it, not for much longer. Something's wrong, but he's been trying to shove it all to the back of his mind for so long that it's become second nature to ignore it.

( _ it's him, he's sick, he's sick-- _ )

( _ it's everything, everything is  _ wrong _ and he-- _ )

"I--"

He's interrupted, the door behind him banging open with a resounding crash. Poking his head sheepishly through the door is Red - although a few months spent mostly in Amabel's company have seemingly changed him overnight from the ragged, emaciated man Philip had known before. His hair is cleaner, although still overlong and wild, and his cheeks aren't so gaunt, his eyes not so bulging out of a face made of knives.

Yes; his face is clearer, more of murky water than of mud.

"Tomas? Is everything alright, love?" Amabel says, surprised. "You look pale."

"Sorry, Red is sorry," says Red, pitch overly high. "It's alright, I'm alright. Lady Swan, I beg forgiveness, but alas - if I could speak to the dashing Philip, perchance a moment?"

Her eye twitches; she needed to tell him something - but the momentary annoyance disappears quickly, replaced by exasperation and fondness. "Yeah, it's fine, Tomas. I think we're done here, anyway."

Philip shoots a confused look her way, but she's turned her attention back to her computer. She looked so set on telling him, but now she's - what, given up the ghost?

" _ Pssst _ , Philip, through this door," Red says from the entryway, and he has no other option.

They don't walk far from Amabel's office, the halls empty and hollow. The light drifts gently through the long windows on the eastern wall, dim and heavy. Another overcast day; it stains the linoleum blue, and Philip has to blink away the melancholy that threatens to steep into him. It's not helped by how his footsteps echo compared to Red, who steps quickly and softly, hardly a sound escaping him.

Red halts suddenly, motioning Philip over to a nearby alcove; such spots are for students to take breaks and socialize, smoke, or study, and are not usually left empty. But the entire building seems empty; Philip can't recall seeing a single other person since he arrived this morning.

He snaps out of his thoughts when his present company whirls around, a feverish light shining bright through the backs of his eyes. Red doesn't speak; just… observes him, a cold, analytical set to his mouth darkening the lowlight unnaturally.

"...Red?" He brings himself to say. "Red, I--"

"Shh-shh-shh," Red says, eyebrows bunching together. "Practice patience, and wake early, little pretty birdy. A parsec and three moments, dear Philip."

Philip blushes, sudden and hot, but keeps his mouth shut. He shuffles further into the alcove, and Red makes space for him.

The other man's face has gone claylike, river mud after a long, hard rain. The silence drags its teeth through Philip's skin, unpleasant, and all he can think to do is turn his attention to the windows.

He wishes Amabel hadn't cut their conversation short.

( _ you're nervous; feeling isolated besides. you're craving smoke. _ )

"I," Red suddenly says beside him, and Philip nearly turns to face him before a hand scrambles against his, forcing him still. "I am afraid, Philip, that I am caught at an impasse; there is a crushing sky above me, and fires below. What to say, what to say, but Red - oh, Red is cunning! He knows what to say!"

Red's flesh is like that of a corpse's. Dry, that hidden step between chilled and tepid.

"Yes, yes, oh, I do know precisely what must be said. To speak otherwise would catch the lies we've hidden under our feet, sewn into discordant earth, and I may falsify truth but I do not  _ lie. _ "

His grip tightens.

"Philip, Philip, you must realize - I had known, from the beginning, exactly what this place was named. It is a warm cavern, gentle in its entrapment, luxurious and heavenly for Red's old worn bones; I admit to weakness, in loving it. You understand that my desired tea time has already occurred, yes? And that I was not to know, carried carefully as I am, even as the flesh throbs and quails around me, and we begin to soothe its infection, an infliction you do not smell even the kindest traces of?"

"Red--" Philip starts, but his wrist is gripped tighter, and he has to swallow back a squeak of pain.

"No, no, keep still and silent and deep in your dark black ice, solid floor above you, so that I might tread upon its delicate surface without fear of falling into the inky waters that swallow noiselessly," Red says in a rushed whisper, his words creeping sloppily; Philip blinks, ears beginning to ring. His heart pounds. "You understand, don't you? He took his palm, forelingered in the spider's sacred den, and he sang his psalm. Five thumbs, held in atrophy; five hands, splayed to catastrophe. Red knew his lines, but the spider grew its own spine. Stunned and shunned, I took what he stole and crept to this hole."

Was the blue eve light growing dimmer? Or were his eyes failing him?

"Twice, it fell upon him. Twice, it sang, and came upon him. I know no more, for I am hid deep, and long, and silent. The Lady Swan is careful with her long fingers and sharp glass eyes, but Red is no more a fool than she. We play a farce, dear, blind,  _ deaf _ Philip, and I say - no longer."

Philip tries to move, but the other still isn't done - he's yanked, his jaw suddenly grasped in clammy, corpse cooled fingers, held tightly, unable to speak. They stand, Red's chest creaking against his shoulder, two statues. 

His breath is like thunder in his chest; loud, quaking, rattling, bursting apart in his weak lungs.

For a split moment, he swears he feels water, swallowing in sloshing waves above his head, cold as ice and black as blood. Despite the terror rushing in his jugular, he feels as if he's gently cradled in an immense, alien palm.

"Don't you understand? Don't you understand?" Red is wild, his teeth brushing Philip's ear. Where there should be the sensation of breath, of breathing, there is only the faintest scent of mist; scarcely there, the touch of death, musty with rot. Blood under the nail. "I am not  _ he, _ he is not  _ me. _ We scarce touched each other, when his palm met mine. You need to see, Philip, you must  _ see-- _ "

He shakes Philip in his grip, his whole body an increasing pressure against Philip. Philip can hardly breath, bitter fear flooding his mouth. A cyanide capsule has split apart in the clutches of his jaw, staining his teeth. He tries to stutter, tries to find some words to calm his friend, but only puffs of frantic air escape him - his chin is still held in his friend's dead hands.

"Lady Swan does not know the words,  _ but I do. _ I found them, Philip." 

Grinning, he mouths nothing for several moments; his lips have found the space just behind Philip's ear, and that blossom of fear -  _ what'shappeningidon'tunderstandredwhatareyoudoingwhathaveyoudonewhathaveyou _ **_done_ ** \- blooms, cold and horrible. His face burns.

"I found them, where it hid them. I found them, but do not worry your poor little head! Red is generous; he shall share them! An expression of his love, a gift given! I know he gave himself before, but we were one and none and I was lost ashore."

He withdraws, to Philip's relief and… concern. He is allowed to turn, now, and what he sees he cannot recognize.

Whatever  _ words  _ Red has for him, he can keep them; all Philip wants, in this exact moment, is to run.

To hide.

His hands shake.

( _ recognition, recognition, play a game of recognition-- _ )

"Do not be afraid!"

It moves. A jostling movement; Philip's already taken a step back. Another; another. It follows.

"I know what you must see, dear Philip, but you need not let your pitiful mind consume you."

Philip shakes. Shakes his head. Shakes his hands.

Below him, the depths extend eons; above, he can see a porous white light. But it is not welcoming, not warm; it stings his eyes, his left has become heavy, thick mud, his skin aflame.

"Please, Philip. Are we not both sane, same men?" Insidious words. Its grin is crooked, a smiling facade; its eyes glint unnaturally. When it next speaks, its voice is lengthened, pulled in on itself. Stretching to accommodate. "Come, Philip; listen to Red's final confession, yes? Won't you please open your eyes?"

It falters. Philip stumbles to a halt, watching it, his heart a rabbit. His vision blurs, blues and a blistering red.

"Philip?"

"Philip, I want only to help. It, It is only listening. I only want to help, see? Philip?"

( _ everything blurs apart in this place, doesn't it? _ )

Hands clasp his arms, loose, not bringing him closer. They are barely there; just ghost prints, with vivid hot points of pressure where he's touched. A phantom blush of stale air; the smell of smoke, ashes; burning flesh. A dribble of liquid collects at his right eyeduct, pooling thickly and then sliding down his face.

He's sad. Unbearably, intangibly - sad.

( _ do you remember? the walls are fragile as china. the bull won't be gentle, when it raises its thunderous hooves. _ )

"Philip? I - I must tell you, we--"

"Enough."

A pinpoint of soundlessness; he begins to loll, unable to tell if his head cranes back and his knees simply failing under his unexplainable grief, or if he is folding, his body curling like an animal away from pain.

Either way, he's held; carefully, he's propped up. A marionette in a ghost's clumsy hands.

"I--"

" _ Wake. _ "

He startles; his rabbit heart falters, frozen, eyes blown wide in incomprehension.

A shadow looms long and blotting over them; Red lets go of him, and they drift apart as it splinters into the space they vacate.

"Red." It states. Its voice is grim. Its continence, draped in inky darkness, not a single droplet of evening sunlight left to expose the shape of it besides the white of its eyes and sharp teeth, is solemn. Unreadable. "Saboteur."

The fuzzy outline of his friend trembles - that is the only thing Philip can call it, besides unease. He's not afraid, no, but something in the soot of his face says  _ fuck. _

"We - we've not spoken, have we, Shadow?" Red says. He seems to shrink; tall and narrow as he is, it should be impossible but that is what he does. "We, we are the same, yes? Yes? Shade?"

No movement.

"No."

Red does not move. 

"You. You won't--"

"Be  _ quiet, _ you mad, stinkin'  _ dog. _ " It stands between them, a sentinel with siren lights. Philip's hands reach without his consent, hovering millimeters away from its spine. "Do not speak another word, or I'll tear that putrid flappin' tongue o' yours straight from your wet, rotten throat. Ya got that, fucker?"

…Clarence. It's Clarence.

…Clarence?

Red's hands clench and unclench at his sides. His face twists, and he snarls with sudden poison. "Liar! Red may be some -  _ mad _ dog, but I am no liar!" He spits. "A sickness! A plague on your empty doorstep, upon your hollow skull!"

Something yellow and stinking lands on Clarence's shoe; all Philip can do is stare, wordless, as a growling, crackling sound fills the air. It does nothing to subside Red's fury - and indeed it invigorates it as the sound folds out into a rolling, roiling  _ laugh. _

Clarence lurches, its shoulders pumping with the strength of his horrendous cackling, and as the sound begins to die in his lungs, he sweeps a false tear from his eye. "You're a fuckin'  _ riot _ , Red ol' boy. Isn't it a  _ pox, a pox upon your braincells _ ? Mad and madder, innit he, monkey?"

He swings his arm, pulling Philip in, tight against his ribcage. "You just stick close, eh? Tell this fucker to get  _ lost. _ "

The last word he sneers, hatred irradiating from him. Philip gives a weak struggle, but the water closes over his head; he's cold, and tired, and the shadow's side is warm.

"See, he says  _ fuck off _ . So fuck  _ off _ ."

"...No," comes the reply. "No. No!"

Philip works to keep his eyes open. He's tired; like a wave, falling over him, but he can't leave Red to Clarence's small mercies.

"I can't!" Red argues. "Not yet! Philip, Philip,  _ listen to me. _ "

He snaps awake, a shallow inhale leaving him winded as he meets Red's gaze. There's fear, in those murky eyes; fear, and sadness. He finds his breath hitching in his throat; it's like looking into a mirror, and finding an echo of days long since passed therein instead of your own damned reflection.

Red raises his head, his hair loose against his forehead, a new light growing in his eyes. He opens his mouth, an unhinging of his jaw -

_ Incomprehension,whitenoiseinvelvet,aparagon,pandora'sboxbleedingorange-- _

Philip shuts his eyes, black spots turning white as a tremour wracks through him--

_ Handinhandinhandinhand,youputyourhandinsideandapinprickpainandaburstinggreenwhitelightasthewallswailasiren-- _

\--his eyeballs squeeze under the pressure, his body foreign and organic and  _ trapping _ him as he listens through a long and narrow hallway of sound--

_ "You don't know the price you pay. The price you've  _ paid. _ " _

( _ i know. i know, i know, i know. _ )

He pushes free, the water a swirling mass of suffocation above him, hands scrambling at his elbows and back as if to drag him down, down, down into the deep darkness below. He manages to open his eyes, and sees Red - Red, his body skeletal and unfamiliar, crimson hair an abhorrent splatter of colour breaking across his mud-clay face. He meets Philip's eye, a thousand words caught in the skin of his lips -  _ lunacy _ , that is the only thing Philip can call it, burbling brightly as a brook in the empty caverns of his pockmarked flesh. Relief, maybe, but no - no, no, that is an echo of the small thing laying still inside him.

A sadness akin to grief. There is something pooling out of his eyes, and he swears under his breath.

"Get. Go on, you diseased, dirty cur,  _ get. _ "

A paltry insult; it is only half given. Whatever infuriated Clarence before has evaporated, leaving him cold and simmering.

Red does not break his gaze, the -  _ sadness _ ever brilliant in the vanishing frame of his face. Mud fills in the gaps, the wounds turning in on themselves, an infested blight becoming pulpous and filthy.

He does not look away, not once, backing up into the shadow of the hallway, fragmenting, vanishing.

_ Gone. _

Philip's breathing is loud in the silence he leaves behind. He can't keep his thoughts organized - they form and reform, shattering and splintering apart. He's tense, eyes burning, and all he can think to do is turn his unblinking gaze to Clarence.

His flatmate stares into empty space, expression… thoughtful. Contemplative; wistful. When Philip can no longer abide the silence, he measures his words and breaks it with an imprecise hammer. "What - what the hell was that? What are you doing here?"

He doesn't think Clarence will respond, but like a puppet coming alive in the hands of a seasoned puppeteer, the shadow straightens itself, and shakes its head, a low chuckle curling from its rows of teeth. "Fulla questions, arentcha?"

A hiss of frustration. Philip grinds out, "What are you doing here?"

"Why," sighs the apparition, "Why do you  _ always _ ask  _ me  _ that? As if I know."

"Could you cut the bullshit for two seconds and tell me what the bloody fuck just happened?!"

It visibly starts, but the pondering look in its eyes does not fade.

Philip glares, the melancholy Red had gifted him burning quickly away to anger. "Why can't you answer me, for once in your miserable life?"

That seems to shake it. "Now look here, monkey, I'm not some show dog to perform tricks on demand! I'm  _ helping, _ alright? Can you get that through your thick fuckin' skull? I'm helping!"

"What kinda--" Clarence whirls around, his back to Philip. "Don't you--"

"Get off your highhorse, Philip," Clarence says, and all the anger flees him. "Isn't this enough? Isn't it enough?"

"I--" He tries to ask what he means, but the words fail him. Clarence's silhouette tells him nothing, and he doesn't know what to say.

"You already know now, anyway. That nitwit couldn't keep his damn mouth shut." Instead of sounding angry or self righteous, the expected poison - Clarence just sounds… bitter. Sad. "You know, so stop fucking with me."

He shoves his hands in his pockets, his back slumping. Without another word, as if he expects Philip to just  _ understand, _ he walks away. His footsteps echo against the linoleum, and with the blue light gone and the electrical lights dimmed he is obscured in darkness; sound is the only signature of his presence.

And Philip can't wrap his head around it. He doesn't understand. Without meaning to, he mutters to himself, alone. "I, I don't know, I don't  _ know. _ I'm not fucking with you. You,  _ you're-- _ "

He keeps going. They don't mean anything, these whispers he throws out into the darkness.

_ Gibberish. _

"I don't know. I don't know. I--"

( _ but you do. you do know, you've known for some time, haven't you? you understand just fine. so why are you doing this? _ )

"I don't know."

Alone, in the dark, the feeling of bewilderment is overwhelming - and all too familiar.


	24. outside it's warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> You're gonna die  
>  I'm gonna kill you_
> 
> _You're gonna die  
>  I'm gonna kill you_
> 
> _You're gonna die  
>  I'm gonna kill you_
> 
> _Feeling all blue  
>  I've no more time  
> They all hate me  
> Because of my crime  
> Their thoughts come at me  
> Their voices are loud  
> All to condemn me  
> My face, still proud_
> 
> _You were my good friend  
>  I saved you before  
> Thought you turned good now  
> But you asked for some more  
> You had to provoke me  
> So I beat you  
> Watched your skull bleed  
> So now I feel blue_
> 
> _Out of ideas  
>  Nowhere to run  
> Looking right down  
> Barrel of a gun_
> 
> _And so I dream  
>  Voices in my head  
> Delusions mock me  
> My best friend is dead  
> I feel no guilt  
> Though I shed a tear  
> I see your dead body  
> With the blood all smeared_
> 
> _A bird sings a song  
>  It's all for you  
> Outside it's warm  
> And the skies are all blue_
> 
> _ [Stegosaurus Rex - Nowhere to Run](https://youtu.be/z9ydWde3TK8) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty extreme chapter. It is the only other chapter besides chapter 9 that I consider fairly graphic and distressing. You may be wondering why I'm prefacing this chapter with these words instead of just diving into warnings like I had with ch 9; the answer is that, although I actually enjoyed writing the visceral nature of this, it actually kind of... freaked me out a little. So, uh, yeah. Ahem.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains sensitive and distressing content. The following apply:
> 
> graphic description of illness, graphic description of vomiting, vomiting bile, distress due to physical illness, loss of bodily functions, implied mental breakdown, mental illness, unknown physical illness, mental fog, mental confusion, hallucination, isolation, developing ptsd, possible panic attack, untreated fever, morbid thoughts of death and starvation
> 
> These aren't light or implied warnings. For whatever reason, this chapter is pretty graphic. Skip to the end for a summary.

_ He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.  _

_ Every step sends a shooting pain up his legs, unlike anything he’s felt before - unlike any natural illness or affliction he’s suffered before falling prey to his damnable curiosity, unlike any of the bruises, cuts, bites and scrapes he’s sustained throughout his journey. He’s out of pills, but somehow he feels as though they would’ve done nothing to soothe whatever creature is trapped within his bones, chewing on the ligaments of his muscles, spewing poisonous spittle into his airways. _

_ His jaw clenches, teeth grinding - but he can’t stop. It wasn’t this bad when he first woke up - he had thought it to be some remnant of whatever he’d been hit with, but as the haze thickened and his limbs began to tremble in pain, he lost all sense of whatever it could be. Reading those bizarre files hadn’t helped; his heart lurches remembering them, a half start of fear before he ruthlessly quashes it. Not only has everything he’s encountered so far pointed in only one direction - a cult, delusional with aspirations of actual science, poisoning whatever they touch  _ just like my bones, my creature  _ \- not some… ridiculous super-bug. That can’t be it. It won’t be it. _

_ The part of his mind that once pondered a medical career, that once researched and ate whatever information he found - that part of him whispers that it is well known that things frozen deep within the ice should be left undisturbed, lest whatever remains awakens to a world occupied by strangers. Verifiable aliens. _

_ He fiercely tells that part of himself to shut up. That won’t be the case. There is something going on, deep within this mine - and he’s going to find it out, and it won’t be some fucking  _ thing _ a bunch of egotistical morons dug up out of curiosity. _

It can't.

_ He quells himself, shuddering to a stop. As he slows, he leans, and then tilts, a slow motion fall of his aching, pulsating body that he manages to catch on the doorjamb. He’s not sure where he is anymore. He… had been in the cafeteria, hadn’t he? There’d been a projector, a computer… He… _

_ He presses a thumb to his temple, applying pressure to his skull with a grunt. His head feels queasy, wet; like a greasy paperbag, about to fall apart at the seams. He sways, and swallows back bile. When he opens his eyes - he’d closed them? - he realises that he stands before a restroom; it gleams white, spotless, and he swears he can feel the cool, clean water from the showerhead already - _

_ He blinks, and it vanishes. A mirage. A hallucination. He barks a laugh, shuts his jaws with a click as terror bursts like a cut on his tongue in his mouth - but no, no. The sound escapes as a whistle through his teeth. There’s no one here. There have been no signs of the dogs he’d encountered before. _

_ There is no one here. Except him, alone, standing useless and pathetic against the door, his jacket sticking uncomfortably to the back of his neck. The bathroom before him is absolutely filthy. Thank God he can no longer smell anything; he lost that long before he ever heard another voice in this godforsaken place. _

_ Before he can make heads or tails of the sound he made dying away in the stale air, he’s moving; a lopsided, nausea inducing gait, but he manages to make it to the sink. His palms burn when he touches the decades old ceramic, the material rough like sandpaper as his weight bears down, dragging his nails through the slime crusting the lip of the bowl. He almost fears what he might see, if he looks up - if he won’t see a damn thing. He hasn’t seen himself in what feels like years. Maybe he hasn’t; he doesn’t keep a mirror besides the one preinstalled in his flat, and he never gives himself a deeper look beyond a cursory check of his hygiene. He’s always tried to be clean. Sometimes it’s like that’s the only thing holding him together; it’s alright if he doesn’t know anybody beyond their names, it’s alright that he only speaks because he has a job he wants to keep. It’s ok, because he’s clean and no one can look at him with disgust due to his physical habits. _

_ He’s afraid. He’s learned: he doesn’t give a single, bloody fuck if he’s  _ clean. _ He could laugh - he does! The laugh is weak, thin, but it’s real, because Jesus Christ, who gives a shit? He concludes in his head that it hasn’t been that bad of a terrifying experience, but his heart pounds in his chest and he has to clutch it with dirty nails. He rests his forehead - his sweaty, filthy forehead - against the musty, shitty sink. Shit. None of it mattered beyond that ship - hell, beyond that sea port he boarded at. Just something shallow to cling on to, a raft sinking slowly under his feet. _

_ No, he doesn’t care whether the face he sees is  _ clean. _ It’s not the first mirror he’s seen in this place, but it is the first that he  _ knows _ he can see his reflection within. He seizes - his shoulders locking up painfully, and he feels a phantom touch of something wet slide down his leg. The idea that he’s pissed himself is irrational. He knows he hasn’t. Whatever is wrong with him cannot control his bladder, it cannot, he’s being irrational, it’s fine, he didn’t fucking  _ piss _ himself, he-- _

_ With a faltering, clammy hand, he grasps at his jacket, around his leg. He hesitates, but there’s no one here. Just he, himself, him. Alone. So he puts his hand between his legs, listlessly feeling the texture of his trousers, pressing against his skin. He’s not wearing gloves, and the cold bites harshly, and he worries - he’s worried - but there is no sensation of damp at his fingertips. His body burns below his chest; numb, staticy, and he flinches when he touches a bit too hastily at a bite torn through his left thigh. It’s not a serious wound. He thinks. _

_ He didn’t piss himself. False alarm. He squeezes his eyes shut, ignores how he feels sweat trickle down his temple to meet the ceramic sink. Forces the panic down,  _ down _ , swallows it entirely until his head hums and the wet paper encasing him no longer feels as soggily fragile. _

_ He lifts his head, slowly, with effort. His heart is erratic, annoying, and he can’t catch whatever train of thought he had before. _

it’s almost like you expect someone else to be looking back at you. a stranger.

_ It’s himself. _

_ Red eyed; the burst veins of his sclera make him look deranged, the bags beneath - sleepless hours on the plane, on the ship,  _ here _ \- so dark and heavy that they consume his gaze entirely. His cheeks are incredibly gaunt - has it been that long? He was trying to ration the jerky he had found, but all of it is gone now. He is struck with the idea of starvation - he sees himself, his body emaciated, dying slowly as he wheezes against the dusty cement floor. Deep beneath the earth, all the world above him, and there is no one left. _

_ He is alone. _

_ His eyes burn holes into him. He’s never liked them, although he can’t say why. A typical little boy, blond haired and blue eyed - too sullen, too withdrawn. He felt himself to be ordinary when he was a child, but there are so many who have disagreed that he hasn’t a clue whether he is anymore. _

_ They stare into him. _

_ He vomits.  _

_ It happens all at once. Violently. He hits his chin against the vile faucet, the thing creaking as he retches and heaves. It spatters, thick and heavy, all across the sink, flooding the basin, and when his body jerks he turns his head and more finds its way to the floor below. It’s green and clumpy, separating like a broken sauce. Flecks - no, more like lumpy strings - of red curdle in the mixture, and his eyes slide shut. _

_ Distantly, he knows his body is still heaving; it rocks in spastic motions, gagging and retching as pain spiders up and down his spine. His mouth drools, and occasionally, like swinging a jar full of paste to urge some amount out, something oozes; dribbling out his lips foully and smearing against his cheek. For too long he’s caught up in the white hot horror and agony of it, this complete loss of control of his own body, how his brain compresses and he swears,  _ again _ , that something’s leaked out of him, between his legs, but he can’t stop puking to check. _

_ The side of his face rests against the lip of the grimy sink, grit imprinting into his skin as his body jerks with each convulsion. But as he squeezes his eyes shut, tearing up, images flicker through the black static of his mind.  _ almost there, monkey.

swaying. the world undulating in waves, blue-black-green-white-grey. underground? no - yes. yes, deep underground, but it’s all a blur that he can’t see clearly. he’s stuck, but he isn’t claustrophobic.

why do i do this shit? for who?

the voice grumbles, a low, crackling timbre; an accent he can’t identify.

shh, shh, monkey, go back to sleep. it’ll be over soon.

his eyes slip, the world rolls--

_ When his senses return to him, ever so slowly, one by one, as the illness loosens its grip on his body, he finds he can’t feel a damned thing. Nothing. His fingers twitch; nothing. Numb and empty. _

_ He lifts his head, heavy and echoing, meeting his own bloodshot gaze. He’s pallid, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced, and there’s clumps of vomit on his chin and lips. Yes, that is blood he just expelled from his body; brilliantly red, amidst the green bile. _

_ He grins. His teeth are yellow. His gums are a shocking white, bleeding. He’s made a broken sauce. _

_ What does he need to pull it back together? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is implied that this is a dream of a memory. Philip is wandering around the shelter, having found the slideshow with some rudimentary information. He is getting very, very sick, and is in increasing amounts of denial over it. He finds a bathroom, and has an episode where he loses control of his bodily functions and also begins to become paranoid regarding them. He has a brief moment where Clarence talks to himself, and when he realizes Philip is listening, he pushes Philip back into the nightmare. Philip thinks something very strange and the chapter ends.


	25. temporary touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I shut my eyes  
>  You call but I just cut the line  
> I know your style  
> I know that you want one more night  
> I'm backsliding  
> Into this just one more time_
> 
> _Too far from over you  
>  Beams from your M2  
> Are blowin' through my room  
> And now you lay down in my shoes  
> You dyed your hair blue  
> So much déjà vu_
> 
> _Maybe in time  
>  When we're both better at life  
> Daylight can open my eyes  
> And you'll still be by my side  
> But meanwhile  
> I've got my contact high  
> You've got your powdered lies  
> We've got these summertime nights  
> Night by night, I let you eat me alive  
> I want you to eat me alive  
> I want you to eat me alive_
> 
> _I can feel your love  
>  Your temporary touch  
> It's a hit & run  
> You go back when you're done  
> I can feel your love  
> Don't you want some more?  
> 'Cuz I can feel your love_
> 
> _I can feel your love_  
>  I can feel your love  
> I can feel your love 
> 
> _ [Glass Animals - Your Love (Deja Vu)](https://youtu.be/Ts--MxmAFkQ) _

The nights Clarence climbs into his bed are vague half memories once he wakes in the morning; the other never lingers once dawn blooms through the window blinds. Philip almost doesn’t know whether they happen at all; so silently does his bedmate slip down the hall, opening his door with only the faintest sound, and pause at Philip’s bedside. Each time it occurs, Philip wakes up, indistinct and hazy with sleep, listening as Clarence’s clothes rustle with his soft breathing.

He’ll feel the weight in Clarence’s gaze, absent of any intelligible intent, and wait. He passes in and out of deeper slumber as the moment draws long and heavy, but starts into half-awareness once more when a knee presses into the mattress gently, carefully. He moves in increments, and Philip knows exactly of the degree of intensity of the hyperawareness buzzing beneath his companion’s skin.

But there’s no thought at all in their actions - in either of their actions. By all rights, Philip should immediately express disdain, force Clarence out, maybe even kick the strange man out the following morning. By all rights, Clarence is still - angry with him. Frustrated. During the day, the tension is so tight between them that Philip is shocked it hasn’t snapped yet. But somehow, even during the day, Clarence eases off his aggravation, and maybe these nights are a clear sign that even he doesn’t completely understand himself.

During the night, or every other night - Clarence finds his way into Philip’s bed, fitting himself on the very edge of the mattress, body vibrating with restrained energy. He won’t wiggle for space, won’t coax Philip’s presumably sleeping body into moving at all, not even when it’s clear that he fights just to stay on the bed and not fall off onto the floor. No; he just pauses there, just as he had before, and once again Philip eases in and out of his own twisting, dark dreams, but this time he won’t snap into awareness at Clarence’s next movements. Instead, reality phases in and out, threading through his sleep like fingers through silky hair. Moments: a warmth, pressing flat against his shoulder; a broad expanse draping against his back; knees, easing into the spaces behind his legs. Like some kind of shadow, Clarence creeps closer and closer, until there is a single moment each time it happens - a moment where Philip swears the other has woven his fingers between his ribs, and they’re conjoined. 

Is it nightmarish? In the fog of his dreams, where he wanders endless corridors, he can’t think of it as anything except comforting. In the mornings, as he blinks blearily into his morning tea, he can’t even decide if they happened at all.


	26. wolf bites and bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> They're drugging us  
>  That's how we are here in the fogs  
> You're the only one with any shock of animation  
> You're the only one who's worthy of my concentration_
> 
> _I had to draw a line in my life  
>  There's those I have time for  
> There's those I don't  
> What's up with you?  
> You're such a power!  
> I want to give you my 25th  
> 36,000 seconds just for us  
> I'm being serious, I'm really curious  
> Are you afraid?  
> Or just don't dare  
> Or just don't wanna_
> 
> _Counting wolves in your paranoiac intervals  
>  Nobody's sleeping, nobody is off the beat  
> You shouldn't try to appeal my Pavlovian bells  
> Anyone but me is an antipathy  
> Anyone but me is just your enemy_
> 
> _I am tripping out on all your future shock  
>  I am tripping out on all your body rock  
> Only I see you deeper than you see yourself  
> Only I see you the way you want to see yourself!_
> 
> _ [of Montreal - Paranoiac Intervals/Body Dysmorphia](https://youtu.be/GuFw4IZWOUE) _

Philip starts to feel sicker, if that is even possible.

He knows, by now, that something is very wrong. He knows he should’ve caught on ages ago, but it’s like his mind slips and slides around the concept, like the thought of a  _ problem _ is an eel. He knows it now in the way Amabel catches him, sometimes, but she doesn’t say anything - just looks at him, and smiles, and talks of other topics. He knows it in the absence of Red, who hadn’t been very present before but was now wholesale  _ gone. _

Most of all, he knows it in the way Clarence is.

Because if there’s one thing he’s certain of now, it’s that the only thing of absolute certainty in regards to Clarence is his ever constant ability to be  _ Clarence. _ Clarence is angry moments, where he mutters nasty things under his breath for no discernable reason; Clarence is the moments where his entire countenance tilts, settling, when he calms. Clarence smokes and blows the fumes into random passersbys' faces, despite Philip’s irritation. 

In all honesty, Philip doesn’t want to admit the various, small ways Clarence just  _ is, _ because sometimes he feels… almost betrayed by such things. Like he had a specific idea in mind when he thought of Clarence, just like he had a dreamlike vision of who Clarence used to be, and both times he’s been proven very wrong. His vivid dreams - that he acknowledges are abnormal, even for him - reflect this; he recalls, faintly, dreams of flowers and dark hair, a suitcase, when Clarence had popped back into his life again. Now, his dreams are choked with claustrophobic hallways, remnants of some diseased creature smeared across his boots. Moments of unearthly brilliant light - voices, whispering in uneasy cadences he can’t understand, until something grabs him and pulls him away, down into the deep darkness of an eternal lake.

Time doesn’t care much for Philip. He’s getting sicker, and he knows something’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what to do. For all the years spent in the pursuit of study and learning, he feels like he hasn’t lived much at all, and his lack seems to be cutting deeply into him now.

It burns at him; he feels like a child, throwing a senseless tantrum, trying to hold back tears of shame as all of the people around him crowd in with disgustedangrysadconfusedjudging faces, and he has to fight himself, bites at his lips and the inside of his cheeks in an effort to  _ not bite them. _

( _ that never happened; you just wish it did. you silent, silent child. _ )

“What’s got you all in a tizzy, monkey?”

Philip grunts at the words, grinding his teeth together. He’s got his back to the entryway, attention laser focused on the stove in front of him; heating up some leftovers. He hadn’t paid much mind to whatever he had tossed into the pot from a tupperware he’d found in the fridge, and now he squints at it, trying to discern exactly what he’s going to be trying to shove into his dry mouth.

He hasn’t been able to eat much all day. His appetite is flat, and his stomach churns at the thought of food. “Making… spaghetti.”

Apparently.

A scoff. “That shit’s a week old. I thought I was cooking tonight. Brain’s all scrambled today, or what?”

“Or what,” Philip grates out. His shoulders tense even more as Clarence comes up behind him, and he almost pushes the other away when it leans against him. Thankfully, he’s not that childish. ( _ not yet. _ ) “Can you just piss off for a second? Why are you even here?”

The question clearly takes it aback, and they watch the spaghetti slowly heat up together, in silence. As the sauce bubbles and begins to pop, the noodles writhe and curl - and suddenly Philip has absolutely no interest in even trying to eat this. He feels green at the gills, abruptly turning off the burner and, with a too loud clatter, brings the pot to the sink and tosses it in. The spaghetti jumps, but there’s not enough of it to be sent over the edge. Tomato sauce spatters over, though, and stains the sink basin with brown-red droplets.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you? I thought you were hungry, monkey. Whatcha gonna eat now?”

“Not hungry.”

He refuses to admit he leaves the kitchen with a black cloud over his head, and he’s glad that he hadn’t stomped at all. He’s not a child. He’s never acted like this before, and the frustration of that just pisses him off even more. It doesn’t help that he feels a little too close to hurling up what little he could stomach today.

Footsteps follow him out. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to, but it’s with a bitter taste in his mouth that he realizes that there’s nothing here to distract him. Nothing in this whole bloody, empty flat, and he has to search his mind with a fine toothed comb - what did he used to do? Before?

( _ what does he mean by that? _ )

“Oh, boy,” says Clarence behind him. “Here’s where I ask you to tell me what’s fucking with you, and also where  _ you _ don’t tell me, I get pissed off by your bullshit, and we both storm off in different directions to spend the rest of the night stewing in our own self conceited anger. Am I wrong, Philip?”

Philip shrugs, too jarring and rough to be casual. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking about the room, avoiding his flatmate. There’s something altogether unpleasantly familiar about this.

( _ nothing you haven’t been told before. _ )

He brings himself to say, “It’s none of your business if I’m upset. And what’s it to you, anyway? You just live here. Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He can  _ feel _ its answering glower. “Sure, sure, I  _ just _ live here, monkey. Sure.”

Is it really that upset? Is it…  _ hurt? _ Absurd. Just like this whole bloody day has been.

Just like how he feels a pain, right in his stomach, but the sensation brings to mind only of what he would do if Clarence  _ wasn’t _ upset. The thought of Clarence, storming off, with the excuse of fresh air and a smoke. Never coming back.

But that can’t happen. Clarence is Clarence. Clarence won’t do that.

“Is this about Red? Cuz I don’t have a clue why you’re pissed over that all of a sudden. So musta been something recent, yes? Something from today? Just tell Uncle Clarence, philly-boy. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

“No,” Philip sighs. He unclenches his fists, a little at a time. “It’s…”

He can’t say it’s nothing to do with it, because… It does. But he also doesn’t understand that. His stomach has been killing him all day, his head - especially his eye, just like fucking  _ always _ \- has been throbbing. Amabel had caught him just as he was leaving, which hadn’t been too bad; she knows when not to prod him too much. It was only when he got home that he felt so hot, like a heated poker shoved straight through his eye into his brain. The sounds of his own solitary breathing too loud and overwhelming, and he’d struggled to get anything done at all. 

A hand cups his shoulder, and his lack of surprise surprises him. There aren’t any words, for a moment; Clarence has begun leaning into the silence rather than chattering it away, and Philip still isn’t sure whether he appreciates the space or not. Maybe he’s unsettled that the other is deigning to give him that; maybe he’s suspicious of it. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.

“Philip.” It’s all it says, for a long moment. The pause rankles him. Then, it says, “Did you dream?”

He nearly  _ does _ shove it off of him, when it says that. He does shove it off when it says, “Sharin’ is carin’, monkey.”

It’s grinning when he twists around, and he curses his impulsiveness to hell and back.  _ He hadn’t wanted to look. _

( _ i dont want to see. _ )

It stops grinning after seeing his face, but its humour remains, a foul cloud of ill intent that lingers in the air. 

“Aw, don’t be like that, monkey! I was just joshin’ ya. Just pullin’ your leg, buddy.” It leans, snickering, and he can see its gleaming teeth, the way its eyes burn brilliantly in the shadows of its visage. Even now, its face ( _ itsfaceisntthere-- _ ) remains unclear to him. It bears its teeth at him, a shadow of impatience and frustration flickering in its eyes. “Either tell me, or get it done an’ over with. I can’t stand beatin’ round the bush! Stop bein’ such a baby  _ and get it done with. _ ”

“I thought you wanted it to last.”

Silence; frigid, like water freezing slowly around them, sealing them both beneath the surface.

It backs up, put off balance. Philip blinks rapidly, and manages, “If you really care that much, why don’t  _ you _ cut to the chase? Stop wasting my time, Clarence. There’s only one outcome, and you know it, so stop trying to needle me into giving you a different ending, because it won’t happen.”

His eyes won’t stop watering. He wonders how much of it is the thing coiling up inside his chest giving him more trouble, and how much is from the words Clarence spat out echoing in circles in his head. He rubs his temple, then pushes hard enough against his left eye to send black stars across his vision. His fingers burn, agitated.

There’s a wet sound, like lips pressed too long together parting in some display of emotion. “You’re such a fucking liar, Philip. Over and over again. Maybe I  _ do _ want it to last, but you’re not exactly disagreein’, are ya? You’re gonna do it, and you know it!”

“Clarence--”

“If I’m pissing you off so much, just say it!”

With that, Clarence whirls around, evading Philip’s last minute lunge to grab at its wrist. He almost falls, losing his balance, and is altogether useless as it storms into the dark of the hallway. He stands there, jaw agape like an idiot, as its blond hair vanishes into the pithy blackness. It slams its door with a thundering  _ BANG, _ and he flinches, guts boiling.

“FINE!” He finds himself shrieking into the empty dining room. “YOU’RE SUCH A FUCKING CHILD, CLARENCE!”

( _ white hot face; god, he’s such a fucking child. _ )

He almost storms out himself, his head growing feverishly hot and heavy and  _ have i ever yelled that loudly before? _ echoing around and around in his too-heavy head. It’s not the first argument he’s had with Clarence, not by a long shot, and it wasn’t even a  _ fight _ . Just.

He doesn’t want to think about it, so he doesn’t. Just like every single other fucked up problem he has, worming around beneath his skin and multiplying like fleas. Soon enough, his skin will split apart, all the writhing maggots bursting out from the tears.

( _ no one wants to touch that. _ )

That night, as he focuses every ounce of himself on breathing and keeping his eyes shut, strange, phantom memories of someone else speaking in a howl that lacks volume, of hands digging into his arms without touching him - that night, just as has become habit, Clarence creeps down the hallway and into his bedroom.

The hand that barely hesitates in touching his wrist is cool, and it eases the heat burning him from the inside out. Without meaning to, he lets out a sigh, everything keeping him from sleep fluttering away as if cut neatly from his mind. As he slips into the darkness, water lapping at his eyelids as he closes them, he swears Clarence leans, placing its lips to his pulse. It whispers something there, and then all at once it clambers up, pulling Philip with it, held in its arms; at each part of his skin it touches, his sweat seems to cling to it. If he could shudder into awareness, Philip thinks he’d feel ashamed.

In the morning, just like every time it happens, Clarence is absent, its presence unnoted: like a ghost, one that Philip isn’t sure is real after all.


	27. summertime in england

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I'm hearing voices  
>  The things you said  
> It's hard to distinguish what is real or in my head  
> I am losing all sense of time_
> 
> _Tell me what to feel cause I don't know how  
>  Tell me what is real so I can come back down  
> Tell me what to feel cause I don't know how  
> Tell me what is real so I can come back down_
> 
> _I feel like someone is watching me  
>  I feel like I have zero privacy  
> I am losing touch with reality  
> I start to question my sanity_
> 
> _I think I'm going crazy  
>  I think I'm going mad  
> I think I'm going crazy_
> 
> _Tell me what to feel cause I don't know how  
>  Tell me what is real so I can come back down  
> Tell me what to feel cause I don't know how  
> Tell me what is real so I can come back down_
> 
> _To be in England_  
>  In the summer time  
> With my love - love - love - love-- 
> 
> _ [Trevor Something - Come Back Down](https://youtu.be/vTC7KyPMdEQ) _

It’s one day in some spring-turned-summer month that Philip looks up from the papers he’d been shuffling on his desk, and he looks around the lecture hall - this immense room, a circular room with seats rising up from where his seat and his chalkboard rest. The students murmur and mutter to themselves, several more drifting in - the hour has not yet struck, the moment he takes a deep breath and a sip of thermos tea. He gazes about the room, and he finds that he cannot look at them; grey faces, dark clothing - their eyes, he realizes, are not there at all.

He swallows thickly. His mind speeds up, then slows: has he ever seen, truly  _ seen _ , his students’ faces? the times they’ve spoken - suddenly escape him.

_ are you here at all? _

Like a light, flickering in stuttered flashes, they begin to vanish. No one reacts; as conversation mates dissipate into nothingness, as sound begins to fade to a whisper and then into silence - Philip stands, still except for his hands tapping frantically to the beat of his heart.

_ were you ever here at all? _

He stands alone, the vast room empty. Shutting his eyes, a memory of the sea, white sand, smoke; all of it sends a shock through him, and he opens his eyes and is leaving behind his desk, his possessions, without a second thought.

_ has any of this been real? _

Playing make believe - the idea chills him, choking in its sudden weight, but water buoys him up. He knew. He has known. But when? He scatters his thoughts to collect them, only to stumble as he reaches the front courtyard.

Outside, people loiter in half density, their bodies not quite  _ there. _ But these are no dolls, no toys of false voices to fill his time. No; he recognizes them, in that same manner he recognizes his students to not be  _ his _ students. They are people he’s imagined, in half dreams and nightmares, and their bloody eyes follow him as he begins to push through the crowd. Fingers grasp at his shirt, but none tighten their hold to drag him back - they only want to touch, to leave some remnant of their diseased flesh upon him.

_ why are you doing this? where are you going? _

His breath is short, little huffs he can’t keep locked inside his chest that sound too loudly in his ears, over the blood rushing through them. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but there’s  _ something _ , there’s  _ something _ \- it’s past this place, but it’s not far away, not yet, and he must reach it.

The world narrows, black spotted and pulsing with each steady heartbeat. He’s never been consciously aware of his claustrophobia, but the bodies around him are so close that he feels pulled, pushed, like the innards of a snake using every ligament of muscle to pull him in to a painful end. As hands grasp at his face, curling and then vanishing through his hair as he darts past, he swears he smells smoke; burning flesh, so acrid and pungent a smell that he stumbles.

The bodies are beginning to bleed; every pore opens up, and weeps, and moans begin to fill the rotten air. Now their hands visibly leave streaks on him, his clothes turning black with the amount soaking into him, and he raises a hand to rub at his face, trying to regain his bearings as he trips haphazardly along. As he lurches, he knows before he sees - his hand, coated in crimson, and a high whine goes through his head as he stares at bloodied fingers. And still, he moves on, because he’s close now,  _ closer _ ; that  _ something _ calls to him, a sound like air after drowning.

He breaks into a space between the bodies, the corpses rising and falling and squeezing around him, a mob of sightless parasites seething to feed. The ground is black and grey, the sky above hollowed, blemished with streaks of greenlight reminiscent of the moments just before dawn. As he looks back to the earth ( _ is this earth? _ ), a figure pauses just at the edges of the swarm.

Philip does not catch more than a hair thin glance of him; tall, grey like all the rest - his eyes spark recognition - but that is all. That is all he sees, before the smoke swells, sneaking fingers through the blood, suffocating what breath he has left. As he begins to falter and fall, fire lighting up beneath his eyelids, he is powerfully, viscerally  _ Awake. _

_ how long has it been, Philip?  _

“Philip!”

A shout, spattering through the hum in his ears. When he opens his eyes, Amabel’s eyes, sightless and empty of colour, gaze back at him. She holds his face in her hands with too much tenderness, blood dripping down her neck, pooling at every dip it can find. Her skull is a mess, brain matter sloughing out of the pulped cavity, and he stares.

“Red? Red, where are you?!” She’s not looking at him, holding his head so carefully. He knows, with a sick, sinking sensation in his gut, that he barely knows her at all.

_ barely knew you at all. _

“Red?!”

There is no answer, but one moment the sound in his ears increases, escalating, and in the next, rough, calloused hands grip him too kindly and pull him back to lucidity.

They don’t say a word; Red gazes down at him, and he stares back, and all there is to know is that it’s already gone. It’s already gone.

A faint murmur. Cadavers loom over Red, and he whispers, “This is just the end, isn’t it?”

As his own voice - raw, dry with need for water - sends a shudder through him, Red shakes his head slowly over him. His eyes say more than anything else, and Philip squeezes his eyes shut, uncaring of the tears that work their way past his control. Despair is thick and cloying on his tongue; an exhaustion, bone deep and apathetic, overtakes the call he heard before.

Hands lay over his shut eyes, and the murmur grows - a name, and he is sick with himself for how well he knows the syllables of it, how he can hear it in that grated, coarse tone. The hands holding him clutch at him, almost possessively, but release him all at once - and as the world he knows he has never occupied finally starts to fail and dwindle into the nothingness that eats away at every part of him, he is thankful he can no longer make sense of what he hears and feels.

* * *

“Why’s it always the same place with you? Lacking in imagination, that’s what you are, eh, monkey?”

He gasps awake, black barely pushed back by frantically blinking eyelids. He can’t make sense of any of it at first, caught up in the last vestiges of some kind of body ache that leaves its ghost laid heavy over his limbs. But as he regains his senses, his hearing pulling in, his eyesight returning, he realizes that he’s laying on sand, his clothes strangely damp. 

Philip sits up, dizzy, only to start when he connects the voice that woke him to the shadow that flickers beside him.

“Seriously, monkey,” he’s saying. “Always with the damn water. Run afoul of drowning? Or was the ice just not good enough? Methinks the lady doth protest overmuch.”

“It’s ‘ _ the lady doth protest too much, methinks, _ ’” he grits out, somewhat unintentionally. He rubs sand from his eyes, disorientated and confused. “What… what are you doing here, Clarence? Where… what happened?”

“It’s not my fault your brain is too attached to its sense of drama to be honest. And nevermind _ what _ or  _ how,  _ monkey boy. Be more concerned with  _ why. _ And  _ what next, _ buddy, because I, personally, don’t have a damn clue.” Clarence furrows his eyebrows, pouting just slightly - and Philip is hit with a rush of affection for the bastard.

Clarence seems to sense that, somehow, and shoots a sharp look at him, striking him straight in the eyes. “No common sense at all left in you, is there? You’re just gonna let me lead along by the hand, like some poor, blind fool. Or maybe just demented.”

“I’m not blind,” Philip sternly says. “And definitely not blind to  _ you. _ But I am listening, because I know you. Don’t mistake that for eating up whatever bullshit you’re going to try to feed me.”

“‘ _ Don’t mistake that,’ _ blah blah blah,” sneers Clarence. “It really is all the same for you.”

For a brief moment, Philip pauses to try to read his companion’s not-face, because he swears that there is some note of melancholy in the other’s tone; but whatever note there was, it vanishes in the minute movements of the smoke.

“You know what I think, monkey? I think you know all of it, and yet you put me in the same scenario, playin’ the same  _ game _ , over and over again. As if you expect anything better than what you already got the first go round. Why don’t you try it with the saboteur? A few sweet words and that mutt’ll come runnin’ faster than you can say ‘ _ infidelity. _ ’”

“Who’s the one crying ‘ _ cheater _ ’ in this scenario of yours?”

“Does it matter? You’re still the dumb fucker wastin’ your time.”

“It does, Clarence, because Red doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you. What happened to the asshole who liked prodding my hurts more than nursing his own?”

That startles him. “And you’re just full of some lousy ghosts’ echoes, a squealin’ pig drownin’ in your own blood. Don’t try to bite me, monkey, cuz I have teeth much sharper than yours.”

It’s all he says, for a too long moment of silence. As Philip finally breaks his gaze, his breath leaving him in a rushed sigh, he feels some sense of… losing. Not in some fight, or in an argument or debate, but as if something is slipping through his fingers, quickly disappearing into the ether below his feet. The sensation frustrates him with its familiarity.

The waves before him are pelted through with seafoam, grey and turbulent; no doubt some storm collects far offshore, beyond where he can see. It rouses a memory within him; the idea that this has happened before, maybe, but he isn’t certain. He hopes, with a longing he finds wholly not his own - he hopes that he’s wrong.

“No sense in beatin’ round the bush, is there? I know that you know, and we both know you’re not gonna admit to knowin’ in the first place.” Philip is twisted around, once more meeting Clarence’s not-gaze, the smoke catching in the wind and pulling into lazy spirals overhead. “I’m gonna haveta drag you there kickin’ and screamin’.”

He sucks in the air between them, such a narrow space that Philip quickly feels as though he is suffocating, and he nearly slumps his full weight into Clarence, only held up by the other’s arms bracing him by his shoulders. Light headed, he manages to pick his head up, only to rear back when a hand cups his face. His eyes flutter shut; Clarence thumbs his jawline, and it’s with a hiss of pain that he finds some small injury that Philip had not noticed.

“Prone to bleeding,” comes his voice, nearly inaudible beneath the waves. Water laps at their feet; the tide, rising? “I’ve thought it over, monkey, although I know you haven’t. Your little pea-speck of a brain, too caught up in the adrenaline and the violence. You were scared, you damnable thing, and yet you bury that so deep that it only comes up when you dream. Are you dreaming, right now? Is this gonna be another bad one, my monkey?”

A too fast inhale, and Philip stumbles out of Clarence’s -  _ embrace. _ That’s the only thing it could be called, right? The whiplash scrambles him, and he licks his lips, blinking rapidly. Each flurry of sight is just a snatch of the water, the overcast sky - the alien light that threads through the clouds. He can  _ feel _ Clarence beside him, and he realizes with a start that he doesn’t know who broke the embrace first. He finally pushes himself to speaking, saying with a raspy voice, “I don’t want it to be.”

A barked laugh is his response. “Ha! Is it funny, that I don’t believe you? You’re gonna regret all of this when you wake up. I may be fucked, monkey, but I know the way the dice’re gonna roll. You do, too, don’t  _ lie _ .”

“Then why--”

“Yes, yes,  _ why. _ Philip, I’m not tellin’ you that. Use your brain,  _ really _ use it, and think about it. Mull it over, philly-billy-boy.”

“...Amabel forgave me,” he diverts, instead. “But  _ you _ killed her.”

He feels empty, saying that. Logically, he knows he should -  _ feel _ something,  _ anything _ \- but emotionally, there is nothing he can rouse into flame. There is simply the knowledge, the understanding, of it. That someone he knew, someone who trusted him, died due to him… And that he still couldn’t decide if she died because of him or… someone else.

( _ perhaps both; after all, without you, there would be no one else - but was it really you who did it? _ )

“Don’t think too much about it. You’ll just tie yourself inna knot, doin’ that. Call it mine, call it yours - what does it matter anymore? The broad’s dead. Or a given definition of  _ dead, _ if ya know what I mean.”

“Clarence, have you ever thought that, maybe, just maybe, you should give a little bit of a fuck about other people? Amabel’s dead. That  _ should _ matter.”

Clarence creeps up close to him, and he turns to meet a recognizable gaze. The eyes force air from his lungs; like a mirror, cracked and aging before his eyes. As he watches, smog unfurls from the broken, blurry spaces - and when Clarence answers, there is only the scent of salt left. “If I concede your point, will you drop it? I dunno if you realize it, but you sure make it difficult to care about  _ you. _ And it doesn’t help much at all when you’re not used to  _ being. _ Not makin’ excuses, monkey, but you’re just as guilty of gettin’ stuck inside your own head as me. Let’s try and make it a little easier on the both of us, eh? So, I killed her. I regret doin’ that, even if she  _ was _ about to chew your face off. Happy?”

Philip frowns, drawing away, and doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, come  _ on, _ monkey, don’t pull that shit again! I’m sorry she’s dead, I’m sorry you’re on your way out, I’m sorry that your piece of shit parents couldn’t be bothered with you, I’m sorry your partner got tired of you, I’m - sorry,” Clarence says, and it’s in a faint, quickfire whisper that hisses through the wind. He laughs. “Sounds so fucking  _ stupid, _ doesn’t it, monkey? I betcha think I’m playin’ some fool’s gambit, tryin’ to get you to like me or something. That isn’t gonna happen, sweetheart, c’mon. If you decide later this never happened at all, you know I won’t say shit.”

When he can’t find any words to say, Clarence drapes his arm around him, pulling him in close once more. Not so close that he’s buried; just enough space for him to move away. He finds himself almost hovering, confused, his heartbeat a slow drumming inside him. It makes his chest ache, and as he tries to rub away the pain, Clarence guides them away from the water. Their feet squish through the sand, socks and shoes completely soaked. 

“Would you hurt me if you could?”

Philip blinks slowly, breathing in deeply. He considers the question, really, truly does - because would he? Can’t he do it now, or is Clarence right in assuming it to be an impossibility now? His hands feel mired, coated in black blood from where he’s driven them under the other’s ribs.

“You can, you know.”

He pauses, and Clarence stops with him. His arm is still curled around Philip, a warmth suffusing so strangely from his presence; like a chill and a heat all at once, changing behavior with the movements of the illness roiling underneath his own flesh.

He wouldn’t kill Clarence, that he knows. He can’t - but it’s nothing to do with impossible things, because he knows all too well just how vulnerable the other really is. He is just as mortal as Philip; just as susceptible to a hemorrhaging wound. But Philip can’t kill him. He’s not sure if he ever could.

( _ because that wasn’t killing him, because you can’t kill that which is not living-- _ )

_ Hurting _ him, however… Would that ease this shaking within him, this strange feeling that weeps into his limbs from his bones, that no doubtedly sends tremours through his hands? Would that ease  _ him _ , this… weakness, that has brought him so low from his already lowly life? Philip can’t lie, can no longer deny - he was no one, nothing, before coming here. It’s just that he’s lost even that, now; there is no way out, not by himself. He’s become incapable, and something in him yearns to do something,  _ anything _ , to persuade himself that he has some semblance of control after all.

That not all of him is leaning so heavily against someone who only wanted for him to suffer, and ached for a darkness that Philip is not yet ready for.

_ Not yet. _

But when he doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look up from his shoes, sand clinging to each available part of him, Clarence grows impatient. “Do you even know who you want to hurt?”

Before he can react, Clarence breaks his hold - always advancing, then receding, and Philip wonders how he couldn’t see it before - and he’s pushed away, not ungently but without care. He stumbles, cursing his shaking knees, but he’s completely unprepared to face the other when he looks back up.

( _ where did your face go?  _ your _ face, no one else’s - did you ever have one? _ )

He knows the person staring back at him. He knows it’s not them, that it could  _ never _ be them. It could never imitate them; not even when he had been so certain that it  _ was _ them, but faced with this - this  _ mockery, _ there is no question. It is not them. They simply slipped into the cracks in it, and grew into the fine flesh of it - but it is not  _ them. _

It grins, wild eyed - and its voice is a dead thing. “Recognize me for once, Philip? You never forgot them, you know. The least you could do is know whether you wanna hurt ‘em.”

It leans forward, its hair twisting into impossible curls, ichor spilling across its mirror-skin. He can’t move away, the flinch he wants so badly to enact is a damaged mechanism that refuses to fucking  _ work. _

“You’re no coward,” it hisses, its eyes dim. “You know them. You’ve always known them. Pretending you don’t is when you get someone like me, Philip.” It pauses, eyes widening enough so the eye whites swallow what little pupil it has. It’s so close, now, its toes meeting his as it looms - as only they did - over him. He can see each separate blood vessel in its eyes, throbbing and pulsing, lumps of grey moving sluggishly just beneath the lens. 

And its gaze wavers, then; it licks its lips, and blinks. Once. Twice. Slowly - as if it didn’t want to, but needed to. Then, with cold/warm breath, it speaks into the corner of his mouth. The pressure of its face against his is hovering, and sweat breaks across his temple. “Do you know me, though, monkey? I’ve spent so long digging for you in this abysmal, bloody place - and what’ve I got to show for it? An amnesiac, soon to be brain dead moron who doesn’t even know my  _ face, _ let alone his former squeeze’s fucking  _ name. _ What an asshole, amiright?”

Philip doesn’t know why he doesn’t fight to get away then, as repulsed as he is by how it wears their visage. But he doesn’t. A putrid, rotten anger begins to churn inside his stomach, his first impulse anxiety at the way his hands curl into fists at his sides - and then, he ignites it.

“You,” he says, and he doesn’t know how he says it but Clarence freezes against him, an eerily familiar feeling coming off of it in waves. Its face has turned, just a little, but enough that he speaks into its cheek rather than its mouth. “ _ You.  _ Don’t you  _ dare _ wear her like that. You don’t know her. You’ll  _ never _ know her.”

Its body shifts, slowly - and he grits his teeth, for the briefest moment savouring its flinch at the touch of his teeth, bared against its skin. “Go back, fucker. Go back right now and I won’t let you know exactly what kind of asshole I am.”

It’s a rush -  _ finally, finally, I am the one with the knife in my hand - _ so he keeps going, even as its form shrinks and shifts, bones crackling wetly. He can feel the way the fine hairs of its almost-face catch in his mouth, his  _ teeth _ , and the sensation excites him, sets his heart racing. “‘ _ You’re no coward, _ ’ you say? The same cannot be said for you,  _ Clarence. _ Everything you are, everything you do - it’s driven by the same old terror. Terror of existence, terror of death. Terror of pointlessness. You bluff your way through my head, always scrambling at every taunting joke your own terrified little brain can come up with - and now that it’s all coming to a head, you come up with this?”

He sucks in a breath, relishing the moment - but it grips him by the shoulders, and it’s a reminder of his own permeating weakness. 

He jumps, skin scalded, and before he realizes what’s going on, he’s crumbled - and only Clarence catches him. He can’t fade into the fog, cascading over his brain - not like he has before - not with Clarence, here, right here - a sting compresses through his eye, vibrant and violent, and he seizes again, each limb quaking under forces not his own - he rolls, or he tries to, Clarence holding him so still and tight that he swears he could just  _ stop _ if he wanted to, but he can’t, he  _ can’t  _ \- and he’s watching the blue, grey, black sky, a dome over his skull that presses down with a weight that is suffocating. And still, he forces himself - to remain aware, to keep his fist clenched tightly over some miniscule amount of wakefulness. 

He almost doesn’t understand when it ends.

A low whistle pulls him back to himself, his body wheezing and heaving in fits all around him. He senselessly wipes at his face - and is unsurprised to see blood, smeared across his thumb. A different hand grasps his bloody one, then, and he looks up with bloodshot eyes to smoke and mirrors and painful familiarity.

“You can’t blame me for wantin’ to try, eh?” It says, and its eyes are undeniably dimmer. Sad. “I dunno if you noticed, but I haven’t been around all that long, monkey. But you’re right. A bluff is a bluff, and I’m comin’ to think I don’t much like it when you flinch.”

He struggles to his feet, and it unglues itself from him. The space is both a balm and an agitator - his skin burns, even as he scrubs at his face, relieved. A thought squirrels its way into the chaos in his head.  _ did you like it when you felt my teeth against your cheek? _

He swallows that thought down, and once more meets Clarence’s gaze. He can’t decide if he’s absolutely sick of their shared step in, step out dialogues, or just sick in general.

Finally, as the wind hums between them, salt intermingling into the air they breathe, Philip says, “I don’t think you understand anything at all, Clarence. Maybe you never will.”

Clarence blinks, and the motion instills some chill into his spine. “Maybe. But monkey, I know that. Of course I do. If I didn’t, what do ya think woulda happened instead? Not understanding things incites curiosity, as I’m sure you, of all people, would know.”

“So,” Philip laughs quietly, spreading his arms out to gesture at the wasteland they’ve trapped themselves within. “So, what, this whole endeavor was just out of curiosity? To see how much you could fuck someone up without actually doing anything?”

It’s an honest question, spoken drolly, but Clarence straightens his broad shoulders. “This wasn’t  _ my _ fault, monkey. Stop gettin’ angry, would ya? I’m kinda sick of seeing that expression on your pretty face.”

“No.”

“‘ _ No _ ,’ because you’re a bastard, or ‘ _ no _ ,’ because you can’t do anything else?” Clarence sighs when Philip can’t bring himself to answer that. “Philip, this isn’t something you can hide away from, not now.”

It stepped closer -  _ in, out, like the tide _ \- and he’s prepared for whatever hateful thing it will say - but no, no he’s not, because instead of saying anything at all, it steps closer, closer, until it is once more meeting him toe-to-toe. He stares at its chest, swallowing hard, all the furious indignation he had before the fit roaring in his ears briefly before dying away into embers. It sups his jaw once more, and he starts when its other hand grasps his own limp one - and, without thinking, his fingers curl, lacing with its. He can feel the lack of its pulse, bleeding heavily from its palm.

Neither of them say anything at all. But images flash through the backs of his eyelids, and he finds himself leaning into its hold; before long, it's wrapped its arm around him, at last pulling him in tightly to its hold.

_ do you think, for even a second, that it wants to be here? _

_ if most of what you remember of someone is naught more than shared dreams, feverish and nightmarish in turns, can you say at all that you know them? _

_ who are you, really and truly? Because the more of you i know, the less i understand. _

“Does it really matter?” Someone whispers, and he realizes it’s him. “I’m on my way out, as you said. Can you even claim that who you are now is real?”

Its arm shifts its grip, but if anything its hand grips his tighter. He can feel it, pressing its face into his shoulder. They’re the same height, now, and if his heart were capable, he thinks that would terrify him. “It does to me. If I’m not real, who is?”

“Very little of this seems real. Even from the start.”

A huffed laugh. “Yeah, that we can agree on.”

He’s returned the embrace now, he knows. He’s a perfect mirror of Clarence; one hand held, the other resting across its back. He has words in his mouth, but he finds himself unable to speak them; his tongue runs across the backs of his teeth, and still he can’t find a single way to say them.

He knows that this state of dreaming isn’t over. Not yet. Once more, once again; it’ll keep going until it’s over. And as Clarence holds him closer, as Philip begins to ache with a newfound emotion he can’t identify, he realizes that he doesn’t want it to be over yet, either. Even as he knows his own brain is quickly melting in the hot confines of his skull, even as he’s certain that nothing that he’s felt since the moment he opened his eyes to a familiar-unfamiliar place and couldn’t stop shaking has been real, not a single moment, not even this moment - he doesn’t want to leave it.

Curse his vices, and his curiosity. Curse the way pain has become cathartic. Curse the way he wants Clarence to stay  _ here _ , to never slip back into the angry voice in his head that whined and cajoled without a speck of presence.

He doesn’t know how to fall asleep again, but that’s alright; Clarence knows how to ease him back into it.


	28. out of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> I've been packing up my suitcase  
>  Got nowhere in mind  
> I know I'll be missing that face  
> Got nothing but time  
> Will you invite me up to your place?  
> I'll make my own wine  
> I can hear my friends howling downstairs  
> You and me, won't get to sleep tonight_
> 
> _When will we be out of this haze?  
>  I see you wearing out  
> Oh, but I'll get you out of this maze  
> Or push deeper inside  
> It's just a little bit of horseplay  
> I've been slow cooking swine  
> I can hear my friends howling downstairs  
> You and me, won't get to sleep tonight_
> 
> _My girl, it's almost time  
>  See winter sun, cuz we will shine  
> Master, won't deny  
> That winter sun cuz  
> We do shine_
> 
> _ [The Dead Pirates - UGO](https://youtu.be/9Ov2naIy4E0) _

The next time he’s aware, he knows he’s awake. Truly awake, now; as he has only ever been a handful of times, throughout this sickness.

( _this… abominable reaction._ )

There is white light, filtering in through a filthy window, perched high over the room. The room itself is nondescript; boxes and shelves, coated in dust and frost. Nothing except junk. There's a chill in the air, and as he tries to orientate himself, he shivers - nearly falling from the crate he sits upon. But his arms catch him; he feels them, distantly, but it's like watching a movie as they wrap around him, squeezing slightly.

「 _Slow down, monkey,_ 」a voice says in the back of his head, and he reflexively flinches - only to realize that no pain is forthcoming.「 _Lookie what Clarence got you! A whole hoard o' treats, just for you, monkey._ 」

Philip blinks, readjusting himself. Overhead, the source of the frozen breeze sweeping through the small room makes itself known; whether underground or not, there's a crevice in the ceiling, letting in the bitter arctic air.

It's like falling: he stares out into the world through that narrow aperture for what seems like an eternity, caught in longing for an open space he can stand in alone. Hope is a fickle thing; he can't see himself making it, getting home ( _do you even remember what that is?_ ), but he can think it in the privacy of his thoughts.

A sensation like hands carding through his hair pushes his attention back to the present, the cold seeping into him from all directions. He almost doesn't notice, but the room would be dead silent without the sounds he makes by just existing. Breaking through the drip-drip of slick walls and the in-out of his lungs, there is the tell-tale sound of clothes rustling in movement.

Detachedly, Philip becomes aware of his right hand threading through his hair, his left still clutching his side. The movement is not a soft thing; no, it reads as something rough, hastened - a nervous, self-soothing gesture. 

Which is odd, because he isn't the one doing it.

Still, he lets it move on its own; scratching long lines into his scalp, carefully pulling apart tangles. His hair is just as filthy as the window; perhaps even more so. He hasn't had even a split second to spare to clean himself beyond patching freely bleeding wounds.

He tears his attention away from… his arm, and turns to what has been laid before him. Almost decorative, if not for how slap-dash it all is. There's his rucksack, and laid upon it is his notebook - and a collection of food.

That snipes his mind away from any other thought. He leans forward, somehow managing to keep his balance, and takes inventory with a shivering feeling in his chest. Several of what appears to be military grade protein bars, alongside packets of jerky and - _water_ . His hands tremble, briefly, as he pulls them close to his chest and away from where he hadn’t moved them - and then he’s moving in a rush, falling onto his knees as he picks one bottle up, unscrews the lid, and swallows the overflowing liquid down. He’s so hasty that it leaks from his mouth, but he doesn’t give a damn, and his stomach protests his urgent chugging, _but he doesn’t give a damn._

Each gulp is a relief; proof, that he’s here. That he’s awake. Even if it tastes like absolute piss.

He finally slows, drinking the bottle dry. He just sits there, after; his knees aching, his back throbbing, every ligament of him burning. But his mouth is blessedly no longer dry, and even as his stomach churns uncomfortably, he feels the most at peace with his bodily processes than he has in awhile.

“...Clarence?” His voice is raspy, and, leaning back against the crate, he shakily puts down the bottle. “You there?”

「 _As if I could be anywhere else._ 」

Again, he braces for the usual spike of pain in his eye - but just as before, there is naught but the presence, the shifting as the virus moves in his unnatural way. Philip licks his lips, looking at what his… companion has managed to scavenge. He’s not sure what to think. He sighs, and rubs his eyes as he struggles to pick what to say. Conversation is a battleground, and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to make his weakness so obvious.

Not that he hasn’t done that enough as it is. Might as well go for the jugular, he thinks. “Well. Any idea if we’re going to talk at all about… any of that?”

_Are you going to ignore it completely…?_

「 _Yup. I’m keepin’ my mouth sealed shut, monkey. Maybe if you go back - but I think we both know that I’m not gonna let that happen again._ 」

_Guess so._

“I’m not sure we _do_ know that, though,” Philip says, his voice still hoarse. “Do you know what else might crop up from that damn concoction?”

「 _Even if I did, it’d all be a big fat guess. Philip, don’t know if you noticed, but I haven’t done much reading while stuck in your big, hollow skull. Try askin’ a scientist next time, eh?_ 」

A sigh. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

「 _Sure, sure, buddy._ 」A huffed laugh.「 _I suppose we both have questions we’d rather not ask, but I don’t know ‘bout you but I’m exhausted. Let’s take a break, monkey, throw down some pillows, get some tea goin’. Get all nice and comfy._ 」

“Don’t have tea, Clarence, but I think this is the most comfortable I’ve been while awake in some time.”

For a time, Clarence says nothing, and Philip wonders if he… overstepped, somehow. That feeling of _losing_ he had in the dream feels so far away, now, and every emotion had felt both lengthened and heightened by the strange twists and bends his mind made in the fog - everything feels dull in comparison, now. He wonders if the fog has somehow followed him here, into this real place, and if it has taken shelter in the crevices of his mind that Clarence does not occupy. The back of his head makes a dull _thud_ sound as he gazes upward, once more watching as flurries of snow speed past the opening. Only a few manage to be caught in the downdraft, and his eyes follow them as they dance and twirl their way through the room, eventually landing atop one of the jerky packets.

Everything is so well preserved. Even in the shelter, everything had been close to frozen solid; where once equipment could’ve been protected by the geothermal generators the Archaic had built, now they must withstand the subzero temperatures by the merit of their construction alone. No one human remains - except for the human remains, he supposes, but as he holds the memory in his mind he realizes that there are only two he knows for certain were really there. Did the Infected take the corpses? Where? 

He no longer wishes to pursue this line of thought, but his mind dogs on.

Wilbur Frisk is the only one besides the two - _three? four?_ \- Infected that wanders the complex. Besides the dogs, spiders, and worms; and he finds that he can be scared again, after all.

Because he’s the only _who_ left besides the Tuurngait and its abominations. Wilbur Frisk, the Infected, the dogs, the worms, the spiders. Nothing else remains living in the mines or the Shelter; not even vegetation, for what little he happened upon was dry and black, dead, just as everything else.

He’s killed anyone who had survived the Tuurngait’s initial attack. And all of this destruction will be perfectly preserved. Will anybody else find this place? If not soon, how distant a time must pass for some adventurous fool to take the same steps he did?

Fifty years. A hundred. A thousand. The continents will shift, the geology will change; if it isn’t found sooner, will the new warm air thaw the malaise trapped in the ice? Within the frozen earth?

His eyes shut.

In fifty years, his corpse will be more than frozen. Kept in this small, unknown room, will the snow slip through the opening and bury him beneath its weight? Will he remain here for so many years that his flesh will be ready to putrefy in warmer climes?

「 _We’re close, monkey. You’re very close._ 」

His breath shudders in his chest. He hadn’t been this afraid of his death before the dream; each time he came close, he hadn’t believed it until it stared him right in the eyes. And each time, he buried that mortal terror, unwilling to waste time on his weakness. But now it swells and grows in the forefront of his sweltering, sick mind - and he is only shaken from it by a hand, _his_ hand, holding steady at his neck. At his pulse; as if timing each beat of his heart.

It slips away as he brings himself back, as he nods. Not an agreement; an acknowledgement.

「 _Y’know what some o’ your memories reminded me of?_ 」he asks, apropos of nothing.

“...No.”

「 _A real douchebag I knew for a loooong time. Let me tell you, getting out was the best thing to ever happen to me. Y’know what I mean?_ 」

A shrug.

「 _Aw, c’mon, monkey, take a guess! You’ll be wrong, but a bit of fun never hurt anybody. I think. Could be wrong with how these wrinkly old bastards did things._ 」

A sigh. “Your dad? I know what you think of mine, so that’s my best guess. Since he failed everything he ever did, and _wanker_ may as well fit him.”

「 _Holy hell, the daddy issues have evaporated into insults! Whatta rebellion, monkey! Good job. You’ve made your Uncle Clarence so proud._ 」

“Shut up.” Despite his words, he chuckles. “So. Am I right?”

「 _...Eh, close enough. You see, philly-boy, we do have some things in common._ 」

“Using your words, then - daddy issues?”

「 _I thought for a good long while that it wasn’t so bad. I got my slice of cake, they got their slices of cake. So, all good, right? Nope. Those bastards might as well’ve left my ass to drown soon as they thought me gone._ 」

Philip doesn’t point out the obvious; instead, he just nods his head, letting the hand tap-tap its way across his leg, before making the leap to rubbing circles into the back of his head.

“Well, fuck ‘em. You’re better off, right?”

「 _...Yeah. Yeah, fuck ‘em. I’ve got my little monkey to keep me company, I don’t need any of those suckers._ 」

A pause in all conversation. Philip rests his head, rubs at his eyes.

「 _Will you tell me about them?_ 」his voice is hesitant; as if not sure of what he is asking of Philip.「 _You held so tightly to what you remembered of them. Is it too much to ask just who you had believed me to be?_ 」

( _i thought you didn’t want to talk about it--_ )

Philip shakes his head. “I’ll tell you how we met, but no more.”

「 _I guess I shoulda seen that coming._ 」

“Yeah.” Philip huffs, and he’s amused. It’s a nice feeling, as translucent and fragile as it is. “We both attended the same University, but didn’t meet until we pursued employment at a different one. It was more of a surprise to meet them; different fields rarely intersect, so it was altogether unfeasible to ever expect to meet the person spearheading the linguistic faculty, especially since I was part of the physics one.”

He pauses, and wonders at himself. It feels so simple to speak to Clarence now; but if his memories speak the truth, he has never exchanged even a greeting with the virus in reality. It’s… somewhat unsettling. 

“I don’t remember exactly why we started talking. Or why we kept on talking.” He shrugs. “It just… happened. Maybe that thoughtlessness was what made them leave, in the end.”

Clarence makes a sound, like a soft _hm_. 

“Do you… do you know why…”

He can’t say it. He wonders, also, at where his bluntness went; it was such a useful tool, but now he finds himself wanting for it, it’s absence too stark a thing to be an old wound.

Is he a blithering, nervous idiot now? Did he survive all that to lose what little sense of confidence and bravado he had? He’d worked hard for those things, had grit his teeth and built them up just for the purpose of serving him in adulthood. He dismisses the thought, and says, “Why did I think you were them, Clarence?”

( _did you believe yourself to be as well? or did you giggle and laugh at your sickly jailkeeper’s foolishness?_ )

「 _I don’t know, monkey. Is that all you have to ask me?_ 」

“...For now.”

( _when we get out of here, you will tell me everything._ )

( _of course._ )


	29. you don't make a sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I break you  
>  Cup your face  
> Awaken  
> Two eyes  
> Blue lens  
> Open sesame_
> 
> _Super silence in the quiet  
>  Eye inside the storm  
> Water from your broken iris  
> Fall toward the floor  
> Everything, waiting, shaking as it drops  
> I tried for you and I, for too hard, for too long  
> Gave it all and everything for more time, but I lost_
> 
> _We're breaking down  
>  Whispers would deafen me now  
> You don't make a sound  
> Heartbreak was never so loud  
> I'm breaking down  
> Whispers would deafen me now  
> You don't make a sound  
> Heartbreak was never so loud_
> 
> _Two hearts folding  
>  Pulling everything_
> 
> _I'm breaking down  
>  Whispers would deafen me now  
> You don't make a sound  
> Heartbreak was never so loud  
> I'm breaking down  
> Whispers would deafen me now  
> You don't make a sound  
> It's all so incredibly loud  
> It's all so incredibly loud_
> 
> _ [Glass Animals - It's All So Incredibly Loud](https://youtu.be/n2I645kBgfU) _

Philip doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually he tugs himself up with shaking knees and throbbing joints. He collects the remaining supplies - he’d eaten a little, just as much as he could stomach - and stumbles nearly headfirst into the door, balance completely wrecked. Every ligament feels on fire, but he registers strange wisps moving beneath his skin. As he manages to lean against the wall next to the only way out, he realizes that Clarence is speaking, too. Low murmurs, hardly intelligible - but it’s a perverse kind of comfort, the way he feels as he listens. Like a half memory; and he knows he’s not yet capable of discerning real memories from fantasy. He doesn’t know where his urge to close his eyes and breathe deep, to calm himself comes from - where else could it come from, if not the dream?

Neither of them have spoken much since Philip told him of his… previous partner. Nothing said to clear the air, and Philip thinks that he might be incorrect in thinking of it as a dream.

( _ as if it were so inconsequential and momentary as a nighttime reverie-- _ )

As if it could be so simple.

But he wants it to be.

He sighs, the cold setting into his bones. He still doesn’t quite know where they are, but he feels as though they are somewhere he’s never been - but close to where he has. A part of the complex he had not found the entry to, that leads straight to where he’d stumbled upon this hell in the earth.

He gets the door open, steps out into a wide, grey washed corridor. Clarence stops speaking. Philip freezes.

Down, down, down - the walls twist. The figure is indeterminate; a painted shadow, with not a single feature. It has no eyes, but he can feel its gaze, and his ears ring with the absolute lack of sound.

It moves.

It makes impact - Philip shudders - or does it?

He sways, head startingly, frighteningly empty--

Falling, the cement floor speeding up to him--

He sucks in a too fast breath. He’s in the flat.

The air itself is still, and he is all too aware that he is the only moving thing here. The windows are shuttered, the curtains drawn closed - but black escapes between them, and he knows that he doesn’t want to look. All that exists outside this place is nothing: a void, a mass, so full of things that aren’t there. He doesn’t want to _ see. _

“...my friend?”

Red. He’s here, even if Philip can’t see him, and he feels weak with relief. The last time he saw the man was… was…

Does it matter? He can feel Red standing there, words on his tongue. Philip says, “Red?”

“Yes. Yes, my friend, it is Red.” At Philip’s relieved sigh, Red’s hands appear from the gloom; they take Philip’s, and he watches as rough, calloused thumbs caress the cuts and bruises he’s sustained. “What are you doing here once more, Philip? Was it not an end? Abrupt and silent, cupped with violence?”

“It was a mistake. Will you leave here?”  _ With me? _

A slow shake of the head. “No. Philip, I am complete and lost and I have no desire to escape. If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry; I am not one to scoff at Death’s handmaiden, nor am I to purge myself of affection.”

“What - what are you saying?” Philip tries to take a step back, but the hands hold him still - unshakeable.

“No; that is a sin we must only attribute to you, my friend. Your pretty little eyes, with your sharp, twisted mouth! Have I sought to curse you?” Red sneers, the words spitting and hatefully  _ empty. _ Nothing more than an echo from the deepest pit. “If thou need marry, marry a fool - for wise men know enough what monsters you make of them!”

Advancement - Philip can only stumble, angrily mortified. “What the damn hells are you talking about?!”

“We are arrant knaves, believe none of us!” The presence laughs, his vitriol coloured red - before rapidly vanishing. “Oh, Philip. Poor, deceased Philip; were you to know me as I know you, we would not be the good friends you believe us to be. Poor, lonesome Philip.”

When he reaches out, Philip does not flinch. The touch is clammy, cold; so familiarly corpse-like. Fingers run over his face, smoothing over his cheekbones and winding into the tangles of his hair. The silence grows, and percolates; bringing water, bringing unnatural calm. Only then does he speak again. “What words I may have grow as fungi from your teeth, and I pluck them so as to be kind. Do not alarm at the pinprick of pain; you’ll receive worse by another’s, much cleverer hand.”

Philip inhales, petrichor and clay - but Red hushes him, the sound a hum that vibrates in his bones. “No, no, Philip; my dear, sweet, darling friend; we are such good friends, so very close to one another’s hearts. I become faint and weary when I lose sight of you, but what must, must. So let me hold this tender sight of you, to keep tucked into the pockets of my heart, for me to savour the phantom of when alone.”

“...what of Amabel?” he manages to whisper.

“The dear, sweet Lady,” Red answers, and it’s with an equal amount of affection and warmth as when he spoke of his heart. “She is so very kind to me, you understand. She has visions of other places I can not dream of; she'll go beyond where I dare venture. No; I wish to stay. Stay in this warm, comfortable cocoon you've secretly swaddled me in, and play sleep addled games with my Reaper."

Philip's skull is taken into the palms, held delicately but gripped tightly. He can feel each knuckle clench, tighter, tighter, until he feels dizzy and suffocated. When he opens his eyes, there is nothing there; Red isn't there.

His head feels strangely full.

_ 「 _ That fucking mutt, _ 」 _ speaks the void, and thus emerges - a familiar face, an unfamiliar face. _ 「 _ I'm going to cut his balls off. No joke this time, monkey, I'm gonna scrub ‘im clean from your brain. Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it, Philip? Stand there stupidly as that ghost disintegrates? What arrogance. _ 」 _

Eyes dart to meet his - backlit by black, but a glow akin to stars spills out from the lids. Its teeth are hollow white shapes, breaking apart the smog it condenses from. 

His tongue is thick and too large in his mouth; he had thought the water would heal his affliction, but the room spins dizzying circles around him and the smog Clarence wields chokes him. "Clarence? Where did--"

_ 「 _ Shut  _ up,」 _ it hisses, and the hands wrapped around his skull tighten, past the point of suffocation - into the realm of crushing. _ 「 _ Shut  _ up, _ monkey! All you do is jabber on and on! You think I fucking  _ care?」 _

_ Yes-- _

_ 「 _ BE QUIET! _ 」 _

Philip's had enough. He surges forward, his hands reaching between the arms that surround him - and he finds its throat, thrown back in angry sublimation. Bared; as if it knew, but it struggles under his grasp. His fingers claw frantically, quickly gaining the advantage.

Its hands drop from his temples. They fall to his jaw, his neck, then his clavicle; without aggression, a silent, terrified sound in every movement.

But Philip is too caught up in the whirlwind of sensation that sends shocks up his fingers and down his spine. The skin beneath his fingertips is raw, bloody; cold, warm. Completely smooth, and he can hear the hum of its breath, the pulse of life as his thumbs press  _ down. _ His eyes flutter. He squeezes his hands, and its voice chokes, a broken pop of air hastily exhaled and never recovered.

He leans forward, the arms around him cradling him as he descends. He pushes his hands - in, out, in, out - a rocking motion that cranes its head back and forth. His forehead knocks against its chin; there's drool, he dully notes. There's nothing he can see; a black fog obscures every feature of it. The only visible things he can sense are the tangible ones; its throat, its arms and hands, its jawline and its chin. As he watches, its mouth gapes open; it's confused, it's angry, it's--

Philip swallows, and, as if from afar, he watches himself slowly ease his grip on its windpipe, bruises mottling and darkening the only sign of its strangulation. His fingers caress up its neck, pressing fingernails into the soft area where jawbone meets neck - leaving behind red marks. And his fingers tremble, just for a split moment, as they linger at the corners of its mouth.

Is he afraid? Of himself? Or of it?

( _ does it matter? _ )

( _ aren't they the same? _ )

It is warm and wet inside its mouth. It opens to him, an alien flower - there is no colour, but he can still somehow see the saliva that pearls out its lips, how the movement of his fingers where they are not supposed to be encourages its messiness. He can't see its eyes, can barely hear the quick, shallow breaths it takes, cannot feel how its hands scramble at his back without claws, how they find the small tufts of hair at the back of his neck and anchor themselves there. All he can see, all he can sense - is this, and the white hot roar of his blood through his veins.

He's dizzy, floating, high above the ground - and it's not pleasure he feels as he digs deeper in. Index fingers scraping over the upper molars, thumbs over its lower canines, the sides of his hands holding its lips apart almost painfully, inhumanly wide. ( _ he wonders if its lips will split and bleed under the force. _ ) As its breaths condensate over his hands, little puffs and huffs as if trying to acclimate - no, he is not feeling exactly pleased.

But he is grinning, teeth bared.  _ Powerful _ \- yes, and he gluts on the feeling, energy and a headiness surging over his brain like a cloudburst. He feels like laughing as he holds its mouth open, unable to speak, unwilling to  _ bite. _

It can do nothing more than gurgle under him as he rotates his fingers, twisting and finding each tooth. His nails shove betwixt them, cutting into the gums; no cavities, and he thanks something nameless for that. It flinches when he pulls away from a tooth, his wrist working to inch his nails free from the tight crevices he's lodged them within. At this point, saliva coats its face and his hands; it cools away from the heat of its mouth, and becomes akin to thin paper once it dries, crackling apart over Philip's forearms. He would be alarmed for the amount, but humans contain a truly ridiculous amount of water within their bodies.

There is blood, he knows, speckled in the damp. Cuts from his nails, cuts from its teeth.

"Look," Philip says, finds himself whispering. It's so very quiet. When did it lay on his back, held down beneath him? "You have wisdom teeth."

It shivers. Its cheeks suck in, squeezing briefly around his fingers, but its lips do not allow for anything else. He can see the cracks in its skin, painfully red at the corners, and he smiles down at it - gently. Then, he reaches as far in as he can, seeking those teeth he had only found by chance.

They're located at the very back; three completely erupted, the fourth peeking through the gums as if fearful. Each is so neatly, lovingly placed; none are positioned destructively, none seeking pain nor pus from its brethren. It shivers again as he pushes one hand in further than the other, drawing the wet soaked fingers back and stinging its cuts with its own fluids. He thumbs the fearful wise molar, the gum flap over it still so new and barely developed. It still winces when he presses down, and he hums in sympathy; he has had only one wisdom tooth, one which partially erupted and impacted as well, making a painful mess of his mouth.

He had poked and prodded and put off going to the dentist for as long as possible, he recalls. Strange, how pearly white and neatly placed Clarence's teeth are compared to his.

The shape of it is so sharp, bitter at the edges; the gum moves when he applies careful pressure. It's without thought, without time, that he settles and focuses; bit by bit, he pushes the gum flap off of the tooth, little currents of blood combining with the endless flow of saliva. Its whole jaw trembles, but he's holding it firm; it weakly shakes its head, trying to dislodge him, but that only makes his nails bite into the soft of its cheek lining. Its knees are pressed to his back, and they are wracked with tremours.

Philip whispers into its jaws, its breath hot and vague on his face. "See? The noise is all you, Clarence."

With a last, lingering touch to those three - now four - wisdom teeth, sliding over each molar, each incisor, his pinky running along the very bottom of its gums, he withdraws from its wet, hot mouth. Its lips are an angry red, still gaping wide. His hands and its face, down its chin and to its neck, are all slathered in its drool.

As he leans back, he meets its gaze; its eyes are wide, whites so large they swallow his attention - and its pupils blown huge. It tracks his movement with those dilated eyes, and realizes it’s panting, each breath filling the silence completely.

Philip climbs off of him. He still watches himself from afar, those emotions he'd been drowned in now absent. He wipes his hands on his trousers, and takes a shaky breath of his own.

Clarence doesn't make a sound. Philip watches as he gets up, shrugging aching shoulders, rubbing an aching jaw. He grimaces at his now wet hands, savagely attacking his face. He manages to clean it off, but his cheeks and chin are red and raw, small marks at the corners of his mouth where his lips were pulled too far apart.

His face is so clear. The light that comes from nothing exposes every facet of him; his sharp cheekbones, an angular face.

( _ your nose. your eyes. _ )

Philip feels like this is the first time he's truly seen the other; always snatches before, glimpses, visions that shook him down to his core and made his mouth fill with bile. Now, as he meets his own eyes in Clarence's face, with his fingertips still damp - he sees all of him. The similarities; the differences.

Clarence breaks eye contact first, his jaw flexing. 

For a painfully long moment, they just stand there; Philip stares at Clarence, and Clarence avoids his gaze. His breathing is ragged, and Philip can see how he restrains himself from panting outright. And yet, there is not a single sign of anger; whatever enraged him has vanished, and he looks… not hollow, but as if lost. And Philip feels just as lost as the other looks.

He rubs his fingers together. He hadn’t managed to clean the saliva off completely, and it hasn’t dried.

_ 「 _ So. Never took you to be that kind of monkey. _ 」 _ he clears his throat, and Philip looks up; the marks he left are still there, and if anything they look worse now with his skin no longer concealed in shadow. _ 「 _ Is it outta your system now, monkey? Get all those… anger issues under control? _ 」 _

“I don’t have anger issues.”

_ 「 _ Ha! You’re a real fuckin’ riot, monkey. Maybe not anger issues, hm, maybe-- _ 」 _ he gasps, mocking - but its voice is still hoarse, still rough. _ 「 _ Oh, oh yes! Repression, violence - does my monkey entertain intrusive thinking? Ever fantasized stickin’ a knife into someone’s neck, monkey? _ 」 _

Philip scoffs. “No. Projecting, are we? I thought you better than that, Clarence.”

_ 「 _ As if, _ 」 _ it shoots back, sneering. _ 「 _ Although I don’t suppose you’d be so ignorant to claim it as unavoidable. _ 」 _

Philip nods, resigned acceptance. He isn’t sure what to do, but his feet carry him forward; he meets the other in the middle. The living room is faded, a washed out reflection of a place he strains to recall - but Clarence is  _ here, _ viscerally so. His eyes trail over its injuries; he has finger shaped bruises, stark on the delicate skin of his neck, and Philip can’t stop looking at them, cataloguing the colour and depth of them. Philip leans - and Clarence bares his throat, letting his fingers skitter carefully over the damage. He hardly flinches, barely breathes - and he’s not sure who he’s talking about, anymore.

Clarence has a heartbeat. It is thudding, fast and hard - a tell-tale pulse. _ 「 _ You never get tired of this song and dance, do ya? _ 」 _

Philip doesn’t respond.

_ 「 _ You’ve noticed, of course, but if there’s one thing you’ve been right about, it’s the persistence you carry. No matter how blindly stupid it is; no matter how much you  _ know _ the outcome. _ 」 _

Philip smooths his thumbs along the too-prominent line of his jaw; is he really so skinny? A twig, he thinks they used to call him.

_ 「 _ You’re just gonna keep on goin’, _ 」 _ and its next exhale comes long and quiet as he cups its face in his hands. Its eyes flutter. _ 「 _ Are you so bent on finding your answers, monkey? Even when you already know them? _ 」 _

( _ are you continuing only because they are not the ones you wanted? _ )

Coldly, Philip says, “No.”

( _ this curiosity is satiated. _ )

_ 「 _ Why do you - persist? _ 」 _

It mumbles, soft, broken words; their foreheads meet, noses touching. This must be the closest he’s ever pulled Clarence in; but it’s not. He doesn’t know if that makes it worse; that, for the brief time it lived, it spat and tore and  _ destroyed, _ no different from its source - and now he holds it in his palm, and it’s calm.

( _ what difference can a dream make? _ )

Cruelty; that’s what it is, and he knows keenly that it will always be that. The knowledge doesn’t change anything.

Once more, he wonders if that makes this worse.

S O S W E E T A N D S I L E N T. I B E L I E V E D S U C H T H I N G S T O B E F A L S E, L I E S H U M A N B E I N G S R E F U S E D T O S E E T H R O U G H.

There’s a screech, torn metal - and his hands grasp at nothing. He stares, but the blood doesn’t go away; there are broad, glittering wounds cut deep into his palms. 

Clarence isn’t gone. He shivers, and Philip feels at once very, very far away and too close for comfort; like his arms are wrapped around the other, but it’s not an embrace. But he’s not there. Clarence is here, but Philip is not.

The world quails, a sound and a heatwave in his eyes. He takes in a too fast breath of frigid air; stumbles, snow crusting on his boots. But the flat remains, and Clarence remains, and  _ it _ remains.

I A M N O L I A R, P H I L I P L A F R E S Q U E.

A choked sound, a warbling attempt at speech, but the thing that is Clarence is so very small. He is hunched, a curled, pained presence, and Philip reaches with a bleeding hand - but he can’t, he can’t - the ice too thick to reach through. All he can do is watch as the other becomes fainter, an ugly red blossoming across his face. Philip can feel liquid run down his own, and he licks his lips; tastes iron.

They’re both bleeding under  _ it’s _ heavy weight. In sync.

I A M N O L I A R, A N D I A M N O F R A U D; W H A T V I O L E N C E Y O U S E E K W I L L N O T B E G I V E N T O Y O U. Y O U R U P R A I S E D F A C E W I L L N O T B E S T R U C K, F O R A L L T H A T I T S E E K S T H E B I T E O F A N U N F O R G I V I N G P A L M.

Delayed - ( _ how do you know that name-- _ ) - Philip’s tongue is fat and difficult to move, but the words cluster in his throat and he is not hesitant. “Don’t claim titles you aren’t willing to keep,” he sneers. “Let him  _ go. _ In fact, let us all go. You’ve gotten your way. Let me have mine.”

Is  _ it _ laughing? All he knows is the way colours don’t seem to be working right; how they burst and bubble and slothily eat one another right inside his eyes. 

( _ maggots. _ )

Clarence is a tightly wound ball, back bent - and still so small, still so recognizable. It bolsters him, even as  _ its  _ voice hollows out and cuts too deep to be real.

H A D M Y W A Y? M A N K I N D D I D N O T G I V E M E M Y W A Y. Y O U S P E A K S O B L U N T L Y; Y O U A R E S O Y O U N G. T H E S P L I N T E R M A K E S Y O U F O O L I S H.

I A S K O F Y O U, P H I L I P L A F R E S Q U E, A N D Y O U D O N O T H E E D M E. M Y P A R T S A R E M Y W H O L E. Y O U R P A R T S A R E N O T Y O U R O W N.

The protest quakes in his chest. Eyes spill out from the darkness; how could he ever have mistaken this wretched place as someplace familiar?

D O E S I T  **L I V E** ?

D O E S I T  **B R E A T H E** ? 

M O R E H U M A N T H A N I T M U S T B E L I E V E I T S E L F T O B E. B U T T H E R E C A N N O T B E  **O N E** .

Where did the hands come from? Where do they seek to take him? They tug at his coat and trousers, insistent with spindly fingers and broad palms. He fights through his failing vision, spits through blood. “What are you doing?! What do you want?!”

Is he calm? He screams words, but they are small and still. He meets Clarence’s gaze; he shakes his head slowly.

( _ are you dying? _ )

( _ will you die? _ )

A building sound, wavelike; he cannot shut his eyes, but his ears ring with the sine-cosine melody.

M A N K I N D S E E K S S H E L T E R, A S I D O, B U T I N T H I S S E E K I N G I T I N F L I C T S P A I N A N D A G O N Y U P O N I T S E L F. I N I T S P A I N, I T S A N G E R; A N D, I N I T S A N G E R, I T S F E A R. I T P I N S I T S E L F U P O N I T S W O R L D, A N D I T S A F F L I C T I O N B E C O M E S A N I N F E C T I O N.

I L I V E D M I L L E N I A, E R A S B E F O R E Y O U B E G A N T O W A L K U P R I G H T A N D L E A R N T H E A R T O F S P E E C H. I S E E K O N L Y P E A C E; A N D M A N K I N D C A N N O T F I N D I T. I F L E D H E R E, F R O M T H E G R O W I N G S I C K N E S S O F H U M A N I T Y.

Even as the room falls to pieces, Clarence remains; white, milky eyes staring a hole into him.

A N D M A D E M Y R E S T I N G P L A C E H E R E, A M O N G T H E I C E A N D B E D R O C K. H U M A N S F E A R W H A T T H E Y C A N N O T U N D E R S T A N D; I K N O W T H I S. A L L T H A T I S U N K N O W N W I L L B E U N B U R I E D; C O N C E A L M E N T F A I L E D M E. T H E Y T R A P P E D M E H E R E, I N M Y S L U M B E R.

I A M N O T A D E S T R U C T I V E B E I N G. W E S H E L T E R O U R S E L F; W E D I D N O T F I N D P A I N I N O U R C E N T U R I E S L O N G C O N F I N E M E N T.

B U T P E A C E C A N N O T L A S T; A S I S L E P T, Y O U W E R E R E A C H I N G FOR T H E S T A R S, F O R T H E L A N D, F O R T H E S E A. A N D I N M Y S L E E P, I W A S S U R R O U N D E D. 

He cannot speak any longer, even as it bubbles and hums inside him.

D O Y O U U N D E R S T A N D, P H I L I P L A F R E S Q U E? T H E R E A R E N O I N V A D E R S H E R E, A N D N O S I L E N C E R S; T H E Y H A V E S U F F E R E D T H E C O N S E Q U E N C E S O F T H E I R L U S T S. I C U T T H E M A P A R T A S T H E Y S O U G H T TO C U T M E A P A R T. T H E I R K I N G D O M F A L L E N T O D U S T, T H E I R T O M B U N M A R K E D, A S M I N E H A S B E E N.

A pounding hum.

Y O U H A V E P E R M A N E N T L Y S H O W N Y O U R S E L F T O B E D I F F E R E N T, Y O U H A V E S E T Y O U R S E L F A P A R T - H O W E V E R R E C K L E S S A N D B L I N D. T H E S P L I N T E R R E M A I N S A L I E N T O Y O U, B U T Y O U A R E N O L O N G E R S O A L I E N T O M E.

Fingers, pressing down against his skull - forcing him to  _ bend. _ His lips curl, his heart thunders - and he watches as visions slip over his head. White figures, distorted; their bodies melding together as one.

I T I S N O K I N D N E S S T O R E T U R N Y O U F R O M W H E N C E Y O U C A M E. T H E Y W I L L S E E Y O U A S I S E E Y O U; Y O U R M A R K S I N D E L I B L E. T H E S P L I N T E R I S N O T T H E R E A T A L L; I T I S O N L Y A F A D I N G H A L F M O M E N T, I T S H U M A N I T Y T H I N A N D F O R G E D.

I N R E T U R N F O R T H I S A C T I O N, P H I L I P LA F R E S Q U E, W I L L Y O U S T A Y Y O U R S I L E N C E? W I L L Y O U I N S U R E T H E D E S T R U C T I O N O F T H I S B L I G H T, S O T H A T N O O T H E R M A Y F I N D M Y R E S T I N G P L A C E? E R A S E A L L S I G N S O F S U C H I N V A S I O N S A N D D I S R U P T I O N S; D O N O T A L L O W M E TO BE D E S T R O Y E D B Y Y O U R K I N, A S T H E Y W O U LD S U R E L Y D O.

W I L L Y O U H A V E S U C H  **M E R C Y** ?

His mouth parts, dry, questions -  _ always the  _ fucking _ questions  _ \- and his head lurches, unable to keep him on his feet. “That is all you want?”

( _ questions. _ ) 

_ you - you know what I’ve done to myself-- _

_ you know who I’ve seen, in my dreams-- _

_ are you so stupid as to believe-- _

_ what have you done? _

( _ it can hear you. _ )

_ Are you fucking  _ taunting _ me? _

The world’s hum, so tight and constrictive, squeezes around him; an orifice that throbs, his body unwanted and despised. Clarence reaches for him--


	30. goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Please put me to bed  
>  And turn out the light_
> 
> _Fold out your hands  
>  Give me a sign  
> Put down your lies  
> Lay down next to me  
> Don't listen when I scream  
> Bury doubts  
> And fall asleep_
> 
> _Find out  
>  I was just a bad dream_
> 
> _Let the bed sheet  
>  Soak up my tears  
> And watch the only way out   
> Disappear  
> Don't tell me why  
> Kiss me goodbye_
> 
> _For neither ever, nor never  
>  Goodbye  
> Neither ever, nor never  
> Goodbye  
> Neither ever, nor never  
> Goodbye  
> Goodbye_
> 
> _ [Apparat (ft. Soap & Skin) - Goodbye](https://youtu.be/TJ4INx5lfe4) _

Does it let him go?

The way his vision blots and erodes into nothingness tells him nothing. The touch he feels as it all fades away tells him nothing.

Is he real? Is he gone? The hallway cannot speak. His feet do not give him any answers. His solitude is too loud for any words to be echoed into the valleys and pitfalls of his rotting brain.

He cannot feel his body.

( _ did it let him go? did it let him leave? _ )

He blacks out; he doesn’t know for how long. He’s still upright when  _ something _ snatches at him, the broken edges of him - and he sucks in a breath, chokes on spit and tears. He’s so cold; his body shakes, and shakes, and  _ shakes. _ If he blinks through the haze rapidly enough, maybe the smoke in his head will clear; maybe the fires in his brain will sputter and die.

「 _ Monkey. _ 」

He walks on; his feet curl and dip, the floor weaving up and down; he is nauseous.

「 _ Stay with me, monkey. _ 」

“Why, why do you  _ care _ ?” The meaning isn’t there. His head lolls, and his lungs throb in time with the walls. A throbbing heart, and he is a contaminant in its chambers. He blinks back the numbness growing in his teeth, the fullness swelling in his right ear - and the hall turns dark.

Flickering lights; a surreal tang. "This," he says, the words trembling, cold as the stone of his heart, sunk low in his throat. He struggles to swallow. "This is a dream, isn't it."

As if in answer, there is water on the floor; leaking from nothing and nowhere. But the figure in front of him confirms the fog catching aflame in his mind - it is thin. It is not  _ there. _

Clarence's face flashes, flickering through a dozen responses, his mouth parting, teeth a glimmer of white unnaturally bright in the vacancy of his jaw. He doesn't respond.

"Isn't it," he says again, something bitter, something sour numbing his lips. " _ Isn't it, _ Clarence."

_ 「 _ Don’t mistake me, Philip. _ 」 _

He swings his fist - making contact with a very real wall. His knuckles burst in pain - the reinforced wood sticks needles through his skin. He lets out a shaky laugh. “And now it isn’t?!”

「 _ You won’t go back. Philip, you’re  _ dying. _ I’m not letting you go back, you idiot monkey. _ 」

Is he snarling? Is he begging? Or does he have no voice at all?

“Please,” Philip is saying, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t  _ hide  _ from me. I’m dying. Are you?”

Clarence’s pearly eyes consider him; flashing in and out of his vision, spotted with black but never again made faint by smoke and mirrors.「 _ You are not going to die, Philip. You won’t. _ 」

“So now I’m not? Which is it - which will be the road I take?” spits Philip. “And you’re my puppeteer!”

He snarls, really does, now - and Philip never knew his face could do such a thing. _ 「 _ No. If there ever was a stringmaster, it has dropped all its lines. For a price. _ 」 _

Philip’s eyes widen, and his sick, crazed mind leaps. “You--”

_ 「 _ You will not  _ die. _ You are not going to die, not now, not to this - not  _ ever. _ Do you hear me, monkey? Do you understand, through all the cobwebs cluttering up that hollow space you call a brain? You are not going to die! _ 」 _ He grasps Philip’s shoulders, shaking him, and he shudders - its touch flaring and vanishing, real and unreal clashing violently. _ 「 _ Ha, ha! How dare you. I’m stuck this way, ‘til that glorious void takes hold and pulls me down. Don’t  _ insult _ me. _ 」 _

He can feel its breath; a shuddering, fearful influx of air - and Clarence’s brilliant eyes, his brilliant not-eyes-his- _ eyes, _ are mere inches from him. The dream holds, spun thin as silk - and Clarence holds him. Philip forces out over the climbing hysteria in its voice, “Are you, are you to die? Is it killing you?”

It vanishes. He lurches forward - fear palpitates his heart, and he is stricken with anxiety. “Clarence? Clarence!?”

_ No, no, not after all of this, after everything I’ve done-- _

「 _ You’ve dug your grave. _ 」rasps his voice, and Philip flounders, falling to his knees.「 _ Your choices, your actions - but you  _ know _ that! I know you do! But you can’t take this single, last consequence? Can’t stand what you’ve done to somebody you  _ hate?!」

Philip shakes his head, addled - he feels heavy, light, as if something is torn and tugged but  _ refuses _ to be expunged. He coughs, chokes, and spits, “I don’t  _ hate _ you Clarence, you stupid fucking -  _ twit _ !”

Clarence laughs, and it echoes in his chest, a reverb that Philip licks from his dry, cracked lips. 「 _ Just as I don’t? _ 」

The air is stale. The air is still. The air is suffocating him, and he doesn’t want to be here -  _ anywhere _ \- anymore. If he ever had.

“Clarence?”

Flickering - the dream - Clarence shys from his touch, so unlike himself and Philip’s heart  _ pounds _ \- they are both down upon their knees, lungs agonized from thin air, and Philip falters but cannot refuse himself.

“Clarence?”

_ You’re not leaving. _

Clarence accepts his touch, then, and before he understands it his arms are wrapped around the other, Clarence’s face buried in his embrace. His heart won’t stop pounding.

( _ whispers in your head - so many things said and spoken and done, fresh blood from old wounds - but do you even care anymore? _ )

( _ did you ever care at all? _ )

A hollow, dry laugh. _ 「 _ You’re a bad, bad man, Philip. Callin’ yourself the hero was always just another fantasy. _ 」 _

“Shut up,” he hisses, and threads his fingers through long-short hair. “Shut up.”

_ 「 _ You’re not ever gonna accept that, though, are ya, _ 」 _ his voice refuses to subside, sending shivers up his arm for the way his voice vibrates Philip’s body. _ 「 _ No. Never. Just like you’re not gonna accept  _ this.」 _

The pit in Philip’s stomach grows. His shaking escalates, and he fights the urge to tear into Clarence’s scalp, to turn his chin and bite  _ down. _

A sigh. As if its  _ happy, _ and the thing raking its claws down Philip’s insides winds itself around his throat. _ 「 _ Look at you. Controllin’ yerself, like the good little boy you are. _ 」 _

It tightens. A killing grasp.

_ 「 _ And yet, you’re gettin’ whatcha want. Letting yourself have it. _ 」 _

_ Stop talking. Just stop. _

_ It’s hurting me. _

( _ stop, stop! stop hurting me! _ )

_ 「 _ Everybody wants to hurt you, silly billy, _ 」 _ it sighs against his neck. Is all of this real? Or a fantasy? _ 「 _ Don’t ya know that? One of the best things I’ve ever done is stop, but I still want it. _ 」 _

He doesn’t know - maybe he never did. It presses a kiss to his exposed collarbone, light; softer than he would’ve ever dreamed Clarence could be, so different from any touch he’s ever experienced in his monotonous, empty life.

It does not kiss him again.

_ 「 _ I wish... _ 」 _ his voice is weak.

_ \--whydoyousoundlikethatyoushouldneversoundlikethatwhatishappeningwhathaveyoudonewhereareyougoingwhereareyougoing _ **_whereareyougoing_ ** _ \-- _

_ 「 _ I wish it lasted longer, monkey. You were right. _ 」 _

_ \--areyoutherewherehaveyougoneicanticanthearyou _ **_whereareyou_ ** _ \-- _

_ 「 _ Ha. I wish it lasted forever. _ 」 _

Pain, igniting inside him, from him,  _ it is him-- _

_ 「 _ I don’t want your forgiveness, but if it counts at all... _ 」 _

If he never knew what it was to begin with, how could he ever hope to know what it is after--?

_ 「 _ I am sorry. _ 」 _

( _ was it always just nothing? _ )

( _ gone… _ )

He’s alone.

He’s on the ground.

The ground is cold.

( _ you’re alone…? _ )

Everything  _ hurts. _

It hurts to breathe.

It hurts to  _ think. _

He doesn’t. He can’t  _ think. _

There’s… there’s a hollowed out space under his fingernails…

He inhales dust; he inhales frost. His fingers are blue, and they sting as he searches his face for - for…

He breathes. Slow. 

In. 

Stop.

Out.

_ Stopstopstop-- _

Everything hurts. There’s ice in his eye; a nail, driven too deep to remove. He doesn’t know where it is. He can’t remove it.

There is nothing to remove.

_ Already gone? _

He doesn’t  _ understand. _ Tastes… tastes of ash…

...Can he get up?


	31. we choose, we chose the other way--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Nothing particular we want  
>  We just get by with what we've got  
> And we never have very much_
> 
> _We find it hard to get upset  
>  It's so much easier to forget  
> There's more than one way to get over it_
> 
> _Another day, another drink  
>  We sit here, learning not to think  
> And we will never be very much_
> 
> _Well, life is short, so why pretend?  
>  We'll never see this day again  
> So we choose, we chose another way_
> 
> _We choose..._
> 
> _DOWN_
> 
> _It's unimportant if we shine  
>  It doesn't matter if we die  
> 'Cause it will all just disappear_
> 
> _Another word, a clever line  
>  It all just disappears in time  
> We could do anything, anywhere_
> 
> _Another day, another deal  
>  We sit here learning not to feel  
> So we never feel very much_
> 
> _Well life is short, so why pretend_  
>  We'll never see this day again  
> So we choose, we chose the other way
> 
> _We choose..._
> 
> _DOWN_
> 
> _ [Whitey - The Gutter](https://youtu.be/bkoYR33Nk9E) _

_ 「Please. I don't want to die, Philip.」 _

_ Neither do I. _

_ 「Please.」 _

_ He grimaces at the crawling the plea incites up and down his spine, the skin of his arms prickling. He's not feeling guilty. He's not. _

_ (he can't. not now.) _

_ Philip doesn't respond. Not vocally. It's been an unstated - ha - rule of his, from the moment he heard the voice that calls itself "Clarence" speak. He isn't going to respond to any of the virus' provocations, none of its baiting threats and crude remarks. All of it - he ignores. There was no time to debate the matter - he needed to find Howard, he needed to evade and escape the flesh eating monsters, he needed to rescue Amabel, he needed he needed he needed-- _

_ Goddamn, but it's not so funny when it's your own life that's turned into a fucking movie. He needs everything to just-- _

_ To just--! _

_ \--Everything except to think about the - the fucking parasite taking root inside his mind. As if he has enough problems cluttering up the space. He was - is, still is - a professor of high caliber back at the University, he wasn't made to take the constant rush of adrenaline and cold fear, the near constant state of fight-or-flight, the relentless panic he tries to keep at bay. He's been successful. So far. _

_ He's trying not to think about Amabel. Because maybe-- _

_ Maybe if you hadn't bloody panicked-- _

_ No. He's not thinking about her. _

_ Clarence is quiet as a mouse, tight lipped (not that it has lips to tighten) as Philip creeps through the hallways. He's steadily making his way forward, toward the Chemical Research Lab. He ticks off what he needs (amabel's note, amabel's last words--); where he needs to go. The Chemical Research Laboratory, for Substance 65, and then the Examination Room, for the other, more… earthly chemicals. _

_ And then. And then… _

_ Philip takes a deep breath, straightening his spine. As if that'll erase everything that's happened. _

_ Clarence, if you can hear me - I don't want to die. Not like Red. Not like Amabel. _

_ So, I guess you'll have to die instead. _

_ He enters the Lab. _

* * *

_ Shaking, silent shaking. He's crouching, hidden in a corner, hidden, safely, behind a large crate. No chances of the cameras or the monsters seeing him. Not now, at least. But he needs to move - needs to move forward, away. _

_ Clarence is muttering faintly in his ear, near unintelligible except for the few fragments of things Philip manages to pick out.「Everywhere, everywhere」and「I, I can't--」 and「He won't, of course he won't, he can't, idiot monkey」and「he -- we can't die, we won't die」and on and on. _

_ Philip scrunches his eyes shut, sucking in a shallow breath. There's a squelching nearby; not too close, but those sounds will always be a little too close for comfort. He nearly gives in to the urge to tell Clarence to shut UP, I can't think -- but he swallows the words. He's not talking to Clarence, never. It helps that the virus doesn't seem capable of actually reading his thoughts. _

_ It's the little things like that that keep his head above water. Even if he doesn't appreciate them all that much. _

_ He rocks forward, leaning his weight onto his toes, his muscles aching as he tenses. God, he just wants to sleep. _

_ 「Philip, Philip, now!」 _

_ He reacts without thinking, rocketing forward, out of cover. His heart pounds - _

_ 「The left, the left!」 _

_ \- liar, liar, he knows exactly what Clarence does, is - but within seconds he's hidden away again, much closer to where he needs to go. _

_ There's a shifting in his skull, a sharp pain he always associates with Clarence piercing through his left eye. But neither of the two speak, even as Philip listens intently to the virus' strange pseudo breathing.  _

_ (his own breathing syncs with it, cyclic. calming, in a place without rest.) _

_ As if it's waiting for him to thank it or something - but he won't. It knows he won't. And yet, it feels like it's waiting. He wants to snarl, venom thick on his tongue and for some godforsaken reason, he wants to bite something. He settles for grinding his teeth. _

_ Stupid. Fucking. Parasite. _

_ He swallows again, but this time it's bile. He's not letting it fuck with his head anymore.  _

_ 「Look--」 _

_ It doesn't continue. Just lets that paltry protest hang in the air, like foul smoke. Remnants of an irrational, spiteful decision, nothing more. _

_ It jokes, but it knows what it did. _

_ Good riddance to bad rubbish. He staunchly ignores the twinge of guilt already throbbing in his chest, only feebly rubbing at it as if to soothe away a physical ache. _

* * *

_ Clarence talks up a storm, but it's nothing but empty begging. Begging for a life it's hardly lived - a life, you could say, it's never had. No way to live a life if you're never alive at all, and Philip clings to that thought so hard it hurts. Not that he needs to, of course not. _

_ You. You are  _ not _ alive. _

_ (You… are not the father! something hysterical laughs. No relation whatsoever!)  _

_ (he remembers late nights as a very young child, eyes frozen on a television channel with no knowledge of his existence. part of him wondered; part of him dreamed; a faceless man shocked speechless as the announcer presented the results. a fantasy that he knew wasn't what he wanted but still entertained.) _

_ It makes it so much easier to ignore its pleas. And it helps that it's so quick to fall back on violence and vitriol, so quick to angrily spit and twist Philip's vision, as if that'll stop him. Useless.  _

_ It's so bloody useless. _

_ He doesn't think about how that describes everything that's happened, from the moment he received that damned letter. He doesn't. He won't. _

_ Instead, he ignores the aches and pains that flare in his joints, ignores the fire burning in his eyes from Clarence's little games. Ignores it all as he scrounges around the Examination room, shattering every bizarre glass he finds out of some pathetic sense of anger, biting and childish. The murky, alien ooze that spatters out of them stains his already ruined clothing, and he makes a point of squishing the preserved vermin under his boot, grinding the soft meat into the filthy linoleum. He can hear Clarence groaning in disgust, but it's more concerned with its imminent demise than his spite. He smears the paste he's made across the floor, cold and numb. _

_ As he loads the chemicals into the whirring machine (ignoring the green corpse stenching up the room), Clarence finally hisses,「You - you won't do it! You can't do it, you don't have the balls! Go on, I dare you! You're--」 _

_ Pain, a crescendo as it arcs up his brain from his eyelids. Oh, how it burns - like Red did. Instead of the spike of grief, of horror like he expected at the thought, there's only relief. Maybe, maybe Red didn't hurt. Maybe his friend didn't hurt. _

_ Maybe it won't hurt. _

_ 「--some coward, four limbed  _ **_freak_ ** _! You've barely evolved outta the swamp! You haven't got it in you!」 _

_ He smiles. And, as if flipping a switch, something foreign rattles through him; a cold flood, ice water and grit, and he nearly shivers for the utterly inhumanness of the sensation. Alien - but sometimes things like this are universal. _

_ Clarence - Clarence is terrified. _

_ A floundering. It's floundering, grasping fruitlessly at the walls of its prison. The walls of Philip's mind; the walls he's never felt entrapped by, not until this cursed, repulsive creature was born. _

_ (no, not born, not born, you'd have to live to be born, be born to live, and it's none of those things. repeat it again philip, maybe this time it'll stick.) _

_ God, it's so terrified. _

_ God, it's so pathetic. _

_ 「I - you - you can't, Philip, you can't--」 _

_ Ha. I will. _

_ 「Philip - please. Please. You don't know what you're doing! You - you're just some - some stupid, stupid  _ **_fucking_ ** _ monkey! I - I mean--」 _

_ "Goodbye, Clarence." _

_ 「Wait - Wait--!」 _

_ He doesn't let the words - fuck, why did i say that - linger, barely gets the next brief inhale in before he's-- _

_ Before he's--- _

_ His hand---- _

_ A pinprick, impossibly small. And it crashes like a tsunami through his body. _

_ the backbone, the meat, the flesh, comes away bloody and wet _

_ Screaming, in his ears - his own or the thing inside his head? Himself and himself, or memories of people he doesn't know - names without faces, faces without names, and why would you remember them at all?  _

_ Sensation, something clutching onto him like he’s some sort of  _ lifeline, _ and he shrieks, its fingers brittle with fear but it sinks into him, and  _ it's _ shrieking, too, pulled deep and he  _ screams--

_ There was a person he used to know, and as his eyes roll to the back of his head, he's stricken with the ache to call out, to reach out because they have to be here, he needs them here, they need to be here-- _

_ Face turned away, they're not here - but they used to be? He knew them in school, as his peer and colleague, of course he did; they joked that they were rivals, academic opposites, even as they shared a kettle in the morn. _

_ The name? Their name, their name - as something gasps wetly, a thud as something falls-- _

_ Red was right, red was right, red right right right red, he-with-the-swiss-cheese-cob-webbed-dirty-bloody-red-red-mind-- _

_ What was their name? What was their bloody name?! _

_ Clarence, in his ear, always in his fucking ear--! _

_ Just - shut up! Shut up! Useless, pointless, all of it, why did he, why did he--! _

_ LaFresque, Howard. His mother did not give him his father's name; in the privacy of his own mind, he took it - like a thief in the night. His mother could give him nothing: not a name, not a home, not a thing of kindness nor warmth. Busy with her amores, those clandestine visits in the night when he should've long been asleep. Watching- _

_ Why did he--? _

_ Fucking Clarence, shut up, fucking bitch-- _

_ Sudden silence; deafening, for all the noise that has wrapped him so gently in its grasp to leave him so bereft and cold, so suddenly. _

_ It's… it's so cold. _

_ 「cold, here…」 _

_ Philip blinks, and wakes up. _


	32. i did--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So it's time to say goodbye / I was never keen on last words / Hope I said something good_
> 
> _Grass has grown over me / I'm on the floor now / I hope you walk through life with a smile_
> 
> _Keep a knife in your purse / Be as needed as the nail / As neat as the pin / Stick into things / Stab into things_
> 
> _I wish you well, I do / May you find peace in this world / And when it's over / Dissolve without pain_
> 
> _I am the worm in heaven / So close to grace / Could lick it off the bootheels of the blessed_
> 
> _I am the worm in heaven / After my life / They'll have me living out in the foothills / Cleaning the gilded gutter_
> 
> _I am the worm in heaven / Remember me, how I lived / I was frightened / Always frightened_
> 
> _I did exist, I did / I was here, I am / And what I left behind / Never be the simple kind_
> 
> _I exist, I did / I exist, I did / I was here, I was /  
>  Or_
> 
> _Never never never was /  
>  Never never never never never never--_
> 
> _ [Protomatyr - Worm In Heaven](youtu.be/7jBayKVcc7s) _

He crawls.

Through dust - through frost - through snow, and frozen earth, through frigid mud - he crawls. His fingers lost all sensation long ago. His clothes are soaked through, the heat of his core the only thing reassuring him of his continued existence. Throughout it all, he is dissolved, senselessly, in the silent noise of it; the snow, crushed and pushed from his body as he moves, his endless sniffling and coughing and weak gasps, pants and wheezes as he urges his body through the agony and cold.

If he stops, he won’t start again. He sees it, as clear as he can see the way the snow eddies and swirls around him, a blanket mist of sharp damp that slices through his tattered clothes, that sinks deep into his tormented body. He sees it: he stops, he  _ stops, _ he shakes - he quails under his own alien weight, the hollow space carving into his brain and growing bigger, bigger, until it swallows him down into the permafrost.

He can’t stop.

He will not stop.

He is loose, he is freed; the air is whispering. The air is shouting. The sun never felt so warm, nor so damning.

“ _ Hey! Did you hear that? _ ”

“ _ What? Damn it, Peter, get your hearing checked! _ ”

Speaking - he doesn’t understand it. 

_ It’s not English, that’s why, monkey, _ something that isn’t there murmurs in the back of his head. A fresh spike of pain curls its claws through him, and his mouth splits apart - he cries out.

A shout. Alarmed.

“ _ There! _ ”

Stomping feet - and he recoils, a sound sinking into his ears that he knows is a memory only - and flinches back, hard, when a mittened hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

“ _ Over here! Hans, go get the others! _ ”

He grasps, futilely, at the  _ nothing _ in his head - at the hollow hole. It is bloody, bleeding, an amputation - and he sobs, wretched and pained. A tickering at the back of his skull does nothing to ease the distress that wracks through him, and as tears spill down his frozen face he is barely conscious of someone trying to lift him to his feet. They fail, and he falls to his knees, swaying into a ceaseless rocking movement all on his own.

_ all on your own, a self soothing gesture-- _

Dully, he knows someone is trying to speak to him. “ _ Sir, sir, can you hear me? What happened? Everything’ll be alright, sir, it’ll be alright. _ ”

They press their palms into his back, trying just as he is to soothe him, small, senseless murmurs of words meant to be comforting.

_ Can’t you see? _ he wants to scream.  _ Can’t you see what I’ve done? _

Dully, he knows they’re still not speaking English. Dully, he knows he understands what they are saying, when he had not only moments before.

As the other men approach, as he tries to peer with bleary eyes and tries to breath through a wet, throbbing mouth, he hears whispers on the wind; whispers, fading louder and quieter as the tide.

_ As the tide, as the tide, as the tide-- _

It is only when another stranger touches him, all of them worried and panicked voices he shouldn’t understand but  _ does _ cloistering about his head - it is only then that he lets himself succumb to sleep.

He thinks he hears a sneered, grinning goodbye in the wind, but the darkness overtakes him before he can understand the taunt.


	33. epilogue; poem to a pigeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I don't give my loyalty to no one else  
>  Looking in the mirror like, go fuck yourself  
> If you wanna ride, let's ride then_
> 
> _Months fly by, I'm fine then  
>  Look up at the sky like, alright then  
> Maybe I'm a pigeon, maybe I'm a clown  
> Maybe I'm too focused on what's all around  
> All I ever know is I'm alive then  
> Look up at the sky like, alright then_
> 
> _Maybe I'm a pigeon maybe I'm a clown  
>  Maybe I'm too ignorant to figure out_
> 
> _I don't give my loyalty to no one else  
>  Looking in the mirror like, go fuck yourself  
> If you wanna ride, let's ride then  
> Link up at the park and fly then_
> 
> _Days pass by and I'm missing you  
>  Looking at the stars like I miss a few  
> Months fly by, and I'm fine when  
> I look up at the sky like "Hi, friend"_
> 
> _ [shiey - poem to a pigeon](https://youtu.be/aaiJ4TzcjeI) _

Philip resigns from his position at the university. Talking never had been his 'dream' job, and what enjoyment he could get from his academic studies is… all gone now.

There's very little he enjoys nowadays.

He moves from his flat. Never before has he felt so… watched, overheard, and yet drowned out by the breathing and noise of other people. It hadn't bothered him when he first moved to the city, but now he spends endless, sleepless nights, curled into a ball on his bed, unable to do anything else but  _ listen. _

_ Thinking. _

No one asks where he's going. No one asks why. Did anyone notice his absence at all? Did they even notice his resignation?

No, no, that can't be true. In the time he spends between quitting his job and moving, he recieves several letters from veritable nobodies. Old students of his, current (or, now former, he supposes) students of his. All of them thank him, say his was one of the easiest classes they had, say that the way he explained things and the quiet atmosphere in his lectures let them relax in the noisy, stressful tide of higher learning. He isn't sure what he's supposed to feel, hearing that.

He thinks he's recovered, physically at least. Onboard the fishermens' boat, he'd passed in and out of a feverish, delusional haze; not even capable of words, barely capable of feeding and cleaning himself. He got better before they reached port, and despite all his insistence they still refused payment. Said they were glad he didn't need to go to the hospital.

He doesn't answer the questions in their eyes. Hardly knows the answers himself; all of it seems like a nightmare, completely unreal - some parts more than others.

Tries not to think of what language he's speaking in.

But he can't let any of it go.

So he quits his job. He moves to a small, run down cottage out in the middle of nowhere, a bargain deal sold by an old widowed woman no longer able to weed the beautiful garden she'd cultivated. And he stews.

Sometimes he writes it down - that's a therapeutic method, right? But in the dead of night he tears apart the papers in a bitter rage, tossing the scraps into the fire and pretends he's not crying. What kind of person is he? He's going to be thirty-two, come spring. Philip can't make sense of his own behavior, but he claws at himself and bites his lips, as if that'll stop the - the  _ tantrums _ from happening.

At least he doesn't dream. Sleepless he may be, but when he can ease himself into slumber all that he has to bear is a split moment of forgetful darkness before once more waking.

In a fit of restlessness, having gone months barely leaving his house, Philip heads back into the city. He doesn't care where he's going; he parks his car in the downtown area, and wanders on foot from there.

He finds himself in a bookshop, of all places. Lingers at the shelves, unseeing of what they hold; hadn't he entertained the notion of selling books as a child? It's one of the few memories that brings him nostalgia and a sense of sadness rather than bitterness.

So many things, made bitter by an angry poltergeist. Now that all of it is gone, he doesn't know what he's supposed to feel besides it.

His eye snags on a book. Then another. And another.

And that's how Philip walks out with a tower of books, ranging from philosophy and psychology to astronomy and chemistry. Thrown in amongst them are decades old studies on cults and secret organizations; the cashier who'd rung him up had looked at him with skepticism and disdain, clearly thinking him to be some crazy conspiracy theorist.

Maybe that was what he was, in the bottomless eyes of the world. Maybe that didn't matter to him.

What does it matter, what they think anyway? He doesn't actually care about or believe that shit. All he cares about is… making sense of something senseless.

Making sense of what's happened to him.

Of what he's done to himself, by following curiosity and childish sentiment.

So he reads, and reads, and reads. Once he's finished those, he sets to finding others - and then, more. He doesn't think he's read so much in his life. He doesn't think he's spent so much time analyzing all of it, recording everything he learns and everything he thinks into the journals he'd bought for  _ therapeutic measures. _ It's not like he has anything else to do; he'd more than saved his own money, his mother left him money, and there was money left in his father's safety deposit box, the one he'd opened that had led to this whole mess.

He wonders about his father. With space from it, he can think; well, as far as before Amabel, before the… yes. Before  _ that _ .

Howard was dead, just as his mother. Howard's body had been left there, just as the rest had been. He wonders if Frisk found it; he wonders if Frisk could stand the taste of rotten, stale flesh. Perhaps not; maybe only Red had such a stalwart tongue. Philip does not much care for the destinies of corpses, he realizes, and he lets his ponderings of the man he could not call  _ father _ go.

Is this all that's left for him, then? Quiet reading, quiet writing. Solitude, and silence.

But it's… it is something he finds himself falling into, like it was something he used to do; embroil himself in reading, to forget his distress; write it down, record it, every clinical thought and every wandering pondering.

He's thirty-four before he realizes it. In two separate books, he's detailed everything he knows of the Archaic; he's recorded everything he possibly could. In his small, peculiar little house, he has rooms of books, both handwritten by him and written by others. In his garden, there is nothing he himself planted; all of it sprung up on its own, wild flowers and onions, garlic and chives, potatoes and arugula. Various herbs he knows the scent and taste of, but not their names. He applies himself to a kind of slapdash, mishmash style of cooking, no longer suffering the bland flavour of ready made meals.

Funny, how much time he has to do all of this without a job.

Funny, how easy he falls into such an isolated lifestyle, only leaving to explore bookshops and libraries. He wonders if Red would've wanted this, if he ever managed to escape the mines, or if the man longed for company.

It is also funny, just how much he avoids in his own mind; how he shys away from tender spots in the soft meat of his skull, but how some days he cannot do anything except prod, and prod, and  _ prod. _

He thinks about what  _ it _ said. He thinks of what… Clarence said. He thinks of what must have been hallucinations, things made up by his mind - but were they, really? Perhaps they were ghosts. Amabel, Red.

...but did any of that matter, now? They're gone. He's on his own.

He was always on his own. He doesn't understand why this is so difficult.

Sometimes, he does leave the little isolated cottage on the hill for places and things besides books. He purchases train tickets, uncaring of where they go, and watches the world fly by from the safety of an empty cabin. He never spends more than a day at whatever destination he randomly chose, but sometimes the journey takes days, weeks.

Days fly by. He thinks he's a very, very sad man.

_ I think I miss you. _

But he returns, always, back to the place where he buries his mind in words, both written and read, instead of thinking of his own melancholy.

* * *

The first time he gets sick again, it comes as a shock and a hellfire upon his system. He couldn't settle back into himself, but with that last voyage he had thought himself free from it entirely, only memories left to haunt him - but oh, how wrong he was.

The relapses are fever sweats, senselessness turned visceral. He doesn't dream. He can't sleep. He stares blindly at the walls, struggles uselessly against the pain coursing through his limbs on his filthy bed. He loses track of everything. Whether he gets up at all, he doesn't know; he usually doesn't understand anything at all when in such a state, and there's not a single person for kilometres in all directions. He is on his own for such nightmarish flare ups. Black outs from the pain are common.

At first, that's all they are; but it isn't long before he begins seeing things as they grow in frequency over the passing years. Every single time, he stares at the apparition with just as much sense in his mind as he does the wall, and every single time he swears it speaks.

Every single time, he is coldly, unmercifully  _ aware _ that he's hallucinating. Unlike anything he ever saw before, he is always one hundred percent aware of that reality.

"Oh, monkey," it says, and it looks at his weak, clammy form, entangled in sweat soaked sheets. "Look at you. You're makin' a mess of yourself."

Pity that it's not real.

"No one around for miles an' miles," it says, and its fingers touch his cheek - but it's never been so clearly not there. It smiles, far more gentle than it ever could be. ( _ as gentle as it was in the end. _ ) "There's no one close enough to even  _ smell _ you when you begin to rot. Who knows how long it'll take for them to find you?"

But despite everything the hallucination cruelly says, it quiets each time, and rests beside him. It winds nothing-fingers through his hair, and waits with him.

The evening after he regains himself, his senses returned and his mind hallucination-free, he takes a full bottle of strong whiskey and a package of tissues into his study and pretends he doesn't cry.

By the end of it, he has a bloody nose both from exasperating his barely recovered body and from picking and clawing at the empty holes inside his brain, where Clarence used to be. He pretends, also, not to see the unbroken cap of the whiskey, not a single droplet drunk, and blames his weepiness on being a maudlin drunk.

* * *

He thinks he finds some measure of peace. Somehow. Even with his continued, endless sickness, his bouts of restlessness, and the days he spends reading and nothing else - he finds peace.

The sky, he finds, stretches in all directions. There is nothing beyond pressing its eyes into him. There is nothing below pressing its hands into him. There is just him, alone, and although he grimaces to admit that he's lonely, he is at ease with it.

_ If this lasts, _ he thinks to the sky above, now his dearest friend,  _ I'll be alright with that. _

( _ Please. Let it last. Let it continue, as it is. _ )

( _ I don't want it to end. Please. _ )

( _ I want it to last forever. _ )

* * *

Throughout all this, time marches on. He still receives emails, along with his regular mail, but it's when he turns thirty-five that the thing they call the  _ internet, _ or the world wide web, or whatever the hell it is, begins to truly gain traction. And suddenly he has accounts on book forums, conspiracy theorists pages (not that he agrees with any of them), and scientific mutterings by those without the money for academia. And suddenly he's typing up his massive collection of journals - all for the world to see. Posted as he finishes them, on several different boards.

He's left out a lot. Of course he has. But as he lies alone at night, the thought of all of it being for nothing, being forgotten… it gets to him. It's true, of course it is - but he wants desperately for it to  _ mean _ something.

Please. Let it mean something, to somebody.

It takes him some time to post it all. Philip doesn't really know how long; he's never been good at keeping track of time, and…  _ that _ made it so much worse. Still, eventually he reaches the latest journal, the last word. Not his last  _ last _ word, of course not, he still has so much to find and record - but it's the newest one. 

Then, he leaves the series of posts with a final, anonymous goodbye.

_ I'll keep going, of course. These people are still out there, still digging and progressing their own unethical work. I don't care about exposing them, you must understand - all I want is to know who they are, what they're doing. This is everything I've found, and my own personal account in its entirety (a few details left out, notwithstanding). I won't be posting anything more. If this rings as truth to you, let that truth reverberate in your core; if you know more, please share. The purpose of this is not only to purge myself of this knowledge in order to continue, but to perhaps gain more from others. _

_ This has been a long journey. Damn me if I know where it ends. Damn me, for not expecting it to lead here. But damn me if I'm going to stop anytime soon. _

He doesn't expect it to go anywhere.

* * *

Then, one day, there's a knock on his door. He glances in the hallway mirror before he opens it, absently paranoid - but there's nothing to be done for his curiously unchanging state. For all he knows, he's just looking too deeply into it; after all, how much does a person visibly age anyway, especially over such a short amount of time? Six, seven years is nothing.

He clears his throat, straightens his ragged flannel shirt collar and the cuffs. He opens the door.

"Mr. LaFresque," says a man straight out of a movie, dressed in black with dark sunglasses. 

The sky is overcast today.

"We're pleased to finally meet your acquaintance. I'm sure you've heard of my employer."

Philip blinks. Pretends ignorance, pretends he feels fear but none of it is registering. "What? I'm sorry, sir, but you must have the wrong address--"

As he shuts the door, the man wedges his foot in - keeping it open. He smiles, gently. His companions shuffle behind him, and Philip feels himself begin to sweat.

"The Archaic have been looking for you for a long time, Mr. LaFresque. They would like to have some words with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [author's last notes](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zHNu_Rf_ySJBhtdvReFbzMuDveniCpv_Ba4kinos2tU/edit?usp=sharing)


End file.
